


the judges will decide, the likes of me abide

by trythedoor



Series: political au [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Political Campaigns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-06-26 21:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19776322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trythedoor/pseuds/trythedoor
Summary: Thirty-six days before the election, Elvis steps down as leader of the Opposition. Tessa Virtue, Shadow Minister of Health, and Status of Women, is elected by the caucus to take over.orit's a political au.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please suspend disbelief about the skaters' citizenship, Canadian geography, and Canada's political system. I'm not Canadian, but I do study political science so I know some things about parliamentary systems. 
> 
> In March 2018 I saw that picture from Gold Medal Plates and my brain went POLITICAL AU. So here it is because no one else was writing it. Maria (@tisaqueen on tumblr/ killthemalldaenerys on ao3) made this possible. She is a hero, and this is for her.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty-six days before the election, Elvis steps down as leader of the Opposition. Tessa Virtue, Shadow Minister of Health, and Status of Women, is elected by the caucus to take over. 
> 
> or
> 
> it's a political au.

**(Thirty-six days until the election)**

_Breaking news_

_Published 13 September 2019, 11:16 AM_

_Elvis Stojko announces resignation as Citizens’ Party leader as polls continue to show incumbent government as preferred, with Prime Minister Meryl Davis’ approval rating at 43 percent._

_T_ _essa Virtue, Shadow Minister of Health, and Status of Women, unanimously elected new Citizens’ Party leader._

_Ms Virtue, after Mr Stojko’s announcement to the press: “I have so much respect for Mr Stojko for having the courage to set aside his personal feelings for the sake of the party and the election._

_“I've been given a great privilege to serve Canada as the leader of The Citizens’ Party, and I will do my absolute best to deliver on election day and champion for all Canadians the wellbeing that they deserve.”_

_More as the story develops._

* * *

**(3:15 PM)**

Elvis had pulled her aside yesterday after the second round of voting made it clear that she was going to succeed him and offered her bits of guidance on how to navigate the chaos that was sure to follow. 

He told her that her job now was to mediate everyone's arguments into something coherent that everyone can agree on, and not to take anything personally--but to always appear empathetic to people’s plights, but impervious against the other parties, and just to her own. To always know the headlines, and have an opinion ready; to always know where the camera is, but remain candid. 

And on and on she nodded politely, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow in a display of deep contemplation even if she knew all those things already, until Elvis’s personal assistant interrupted to steer the man to a meeting with his speech writer. 

Of course, she and Scott had gone over their own preparations for today. Which smile will be most charismatic, the right pitch and tone of her voice, what posture and stance would convey both humility and power; the outfit she’ll wear--feminine but structured, conservative but bold: a black coat shaped dress matched with black suede pumps and amethyst drop earrings set in white gold; memorising the names of the members of the press gallery so as to appear casual and friendly; and refining her talking points, her agenda as the leader of the party and as a potential prime minister, policies that she’s been developing since she was twenty-one and sitting on the floor of Shae-Lynn’s office with graphs and research fanned in front of her trying to solve such a vague brief: make children feel empowered. 

Finally alone in the quiet respite of her office after the pandemonium that followed the announcement, Tessa just wants a hug. 

As it is, she only has ten minutes before her meeting with Marie-France and Patrice, clearly not enough time to run home and back. A phone call will have to suffice. 

Sitting herself behind her desk, Tessa unlocks the top left drawer to take out her personal phone, swipes up on the screen to open the keypad and holds down the number 2. 

She doesn't have to wait long. Scott answers after two rings with a “Hi, T! Just a sec!” and hangs up. 

She allows herself a small chuckle. No doubt he's trying to wrangle their daughter. 

A beat later her phone vibrates with an incoming video call, and she accepts it just as quickly. The image that greets her instantly dulls the anxiety in her heart.

Scott’s phone is propped against what might be the vase on the middle of their dining table. Her husband has their toddler seated on his lap as he secures violet ribbons around her pigtails, getting her ready for their daily date at the playground a block from their home. 

Everyone thinks that Tessa has such an eye for fashion that it was inevitable that their baby girl would always be the best dressed person in any room. But really, it’s been Scott who’s insisted since they brought Eliza home from the hospital that their baby’s outfit always has matching accessories, because “It’s just so damned cute, Tess,” he’d wept as he cradled Eliza’s teeny tiny feet in knitted white booties. 

Don’t get her wrong, she loves accepting compliments from strangers about how adorable her daughter looks, especially when she and the toddler are wearing matching wardrobes. It makes her shop for designer baby clothes at prices that would make her constituents blanch. (Everyone has their vices, and she and Scott have chosen this). But given that Tessa’s usually out the door before seven in the morning, an hour before their baby wakes, it’s Scott who gets to pull together Eliza’s outfits. He always delivers. And now he's the most popular among the playground-regular parents for tips on colour coordination and hair braiding. 

“Say ‘hi’ to Mommy, kiddo!” Scott instructs as he weaves the second and last ribbon around the toddler’s hair.

“Hi, Mommy!” 

Eliza's focused on shoving a whole cracker in her mouth, then reaching for a slice of cheese on the plastic plate in front of her and shoving that in too. But once she's happily munching, Eliza throws out her arms and imitates a hug for Tessa. 

Just what Tessa needed. 

“Hello, you two! Mommy’s had such a busy day, tell me yours was much more peaceful,” she pleads, not so playfully.

Done with his ribbon work, Scott sweeps his gaze across Tessa's face. 

Some of the press gallery questions had made her sweat, particularly that one about her comments just over a week ago declaring that she had no intention to take over Elvis's job. But her makeup is still intact to give her appearance a healthy glow, and her stress is almost imperceptible, if not for the tight set of her jaw and the crease between her brows that she's now so accustomed to that she forgets this feeling of tension shouldn't be the norm. But instead of commenting on what he’s clearly able to read on her face, Scott looks down at Eliza and gives her a pat on the shoulder to indicate she should take a wee break from snacking and talk to her mother. But Eliza refuses, pouting as she chews, reaching for another cracker from the stack in front of her.

Scott gives Tessa a look that says, ‘What can you do?’

 _She eats like her dad,_ Tessa shakes her head with a smile.

“So,” Scott begins instead, “the Moirs commenting on my Instagram post are pledging their votes to you and the party, plus door knocking services. They occupy about half of Canada so you only really need to rally about eleven more votes.” 

Her jaw begins to loosen, and her smile stretches to a full grin. Her husband, always able to lighten the mood. 

“And just before naptime when we went for a walk around the block, we ran into some folks walking their dog, so we had to stop and pet the dog, didn’t we, Eliza? It was a very excitable dog, eh, kiddo?”

At the mention of her name, their daughter looks up from arranging her cheese and replies with, perhaps, her own version of the story. 

Scott nods along seriously to Eliza’s speech. When their baby stops speaking and looks up at Scott for a reply, in a considered voice he tells the toddler, “Yeah, the doggy did sniff you lots. But he was very good for you when you rubbed his belly, I thought.” 

“Yeah,” Eliza agrees. 

Tessa could watch them converse for hours. 

And then Scott directs his attention back to Tessa and asks, “So, how are you feeling right now?” 

She hesitates. She doesn’t really want to let the floodgates open right now when she has six minutes left and counting. She’d rather hear more about excitable dogs and belly rubs. So Tessa settles with, “A bit overwhelmed. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.” 

Scott knows not to force her. But he runs his hand through his hair, messing it up a little, and the frown he had at the beginning of the call after seeing her anxiety has definitely gotten more obvious, and she wishes she could kiss it off his face to make them both feel better. But she can’t--at least not for another seven or so hours. They both sigh at the same time. 

Tessa doesn’t regret throwing her name in the race. She knows that among her colleagues in the party, she has the superior ideas and interpersonal skills to get things done. 

And she is definitely better than Meryl and Charlie and their poor excuse of economic policy. 

But when Tessa visualised herself as Prime Minister, she always saw herself as much older, much more mature. 

Still in great blazers, of course, and Scott would be by her side with Eliza and maybe even another child. And Kate would be there, ageless and stalwart, and Jordan and her brothers and their families, and Scott’s brothers too, and Alma and Joe. And they’d all beam at her with pride as they watch her stand at the podium as she tells the party’s supporters and volunteers that she’s just received confirmation that they have enough seats to govern alone, and now, finally they can make Canada a place where girls and women never question their worth, where justice is served for those who’ve been marginalised, where everyone can feel accepted in their community. 

When Tessa was visualising those things, she never had to consider the reality of her new position.

She doesn’t doubt Scott’s ability and good humour to keep up with her office, and keep their household functioning. He’ll be alright if she becomes Prime Minister. 

(On Monday while she was going through her nightly routine in front of the bathroom sink, and while Scott sat on the closed toilet lid to keep her company, she’d told him that Elvis was considering stepping down and that she wanted to put her name up for consideration for leader. Scott had made a strangled sort of sound, and as she turned around to see what was wrong, he’d swept her up into a big, tight hug, and spun her around and around. She’d let out a shriek and gripped tightly onto his shoulders, demanding through her giggles that he let her down. 

Once her feet were on solid ground again, still pressed close together, Scott had taken her face into his hands, grazed the flush in her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs and leant down to give her a firm and lingering kiss. And when Scott broke the kiss, both giving a soft moan at the separation, he’d gazed into her eyes and said with full sincerity and an emotional wobble in his voice, “You’re going to be great, Tess.” 

And they'd stared at each other, excitement and anxiety and determination and hope flickering on their faces until he asked, “Do you want to run your pitch by me, get it perfect for tomorrow?” 

And she did, leaning back against the counter as she applied her moisturiser, while Scott returned to his seat on the closed toilet lid, they’d spent forty-five minutes going back and forth, ironing out her vision for the party and their potential government.)

Rather, what gives her anxiety is the public scrutiny and the invasion of privacy that will inevitably follow their extended family as the personality politics of this election gears up. 

She worries about Kate who lives alone in her house in London, for Jordan who people on social media have sneaked taking pictures of for her uncanny resemblance to Tessa, for Alma and Joe and Scott’s brothers and their families who didn’t sign up for _this_ kind of drama when she and Scott got together. 

And most importantly, for Eliza, who didn’t ask to be Tessa Virtue’s daughter, but who's now apparently fair game for public vitriol to get to her mother. 

Eliza, whose chubby cheeks are always flushed pink because she spends her time with her dad who makes her giggle and laugh all day long. Who, when she smiles, has Scott’s smile--baby teeth on full display, nose scrunched up and eyes squinted. Her baby who is so sweet and kind and offers anyone she sees frowning her hand to hold for comfort, so mature in her compassion, but who still drinks milk from a bottle that she’ll insist Scott or Tessa hold for her while she feeds even though she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. 

Eliza, who is currently twisting around her seat on Scott’s lap and offering her dad a bite of her soggy cracker. 

_Stay present_ , Tessa reminds herself. The time for anxiety isn’t now. Instead, she coos at her daughter through the screen, “Did you and Daddy have a picnic without me, baby? I'm sorry you had to stay home today. What did you have for lunch?” 

Pleased to have the conversation centred on her again, Eliza starts a stream of babble and Tessa can make out some variation of “sandwich”, “carrot”, and a very clear “cookie”. 

Tessa is making the appropriate exclamations at the information, enjoying to see the girl in good spirits despite the tears the night before when Tessa and Scott told her there wouldn't be a picnic lunch on Mommy's office floor on account of the announcement. She grins at her daughter's enthusiasm for the cookie she no doubt duped her father into giving her, until Scott interjects, “What did _you_ eat? Are you staying hydrated?” 

That gives her pause. She’d actually retreated to her office on the excuse of a quick, overdue lunch. Scott had made her poached eggs on toast for breakfast, but since then she’s been subsisting off of the cups of coffee her assistant has been pressing into her hand every other hour since she arrived this morning. 

Maybe switching to water and eating the chicken salad, and cake leftover from dinner that Scott packed for her might actually help ease the overwhelmingness of her day. Tessa just gives him a shrug, "I'll eat after my next meeting."

He frowns, not impressed. “Baby," he directs at their daughter, "Tell Mommy she has to eat and drink water.” 

Eliza had ignored Scott’s earlier interruption and had kept talking about herself, but this she obeys. “Mommy eat,” she says clearly in her sweet, high voice, and emphasises her point by shoving her last slice of cheese into her mouth, sending Tessa a grin.

It’s adorable that she always does as Scott says, but it’s not even election day and already Tessa's being outvoted. 

She nods along to placate Scott, and any protest he might have made at her noncommittal response is interrupted by three quick raps at her door. 

She looks up from her phone just as her assistant steps through. 

“Ms Virtue," Kaetlyn announces. "Mr Lauzon and Dr Dubreuil are here.” 

Tessa sends her a tight smile, the crease between her brows returning. “Thank you, Kaetlyn, just give me two minutes and then send them in.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” she nods and retreats, closing the door behind her. 

Tessa looks back down at her phone to see Scott and Eliza in a cuddle, Scott reaching across the screen to grab and offer the toddler her sippy cup half filled with apple juice. 

She has to focus on her breathing again, she has to get back to work. 

Just as she sets to begin her goodbyes, Scott asks her, “Do you think you’ll make it home for bedtime?”

A pang of guilt floods through her. Tessa knows Eliza loves her despite her work hours, but since she can't be there to watch her daughter greet the day, Tessa does her utmost to make it to bedtime. They’ve even gone so far as to push it to ten so that she can be there for cuddles and a story.

She sighs. “I don’t think so. Marie and Patch might want to talk strategy and I’d rather get it done as soon as possible.” She hesitates, “That is, if they agree to come on board. And if they do, I’d need to talk to the cabinet as soon as possible to get things going by Monday.” 

“That’s okay,” Scott is quick to assure. “You know Marie and Patch believe in you, and you’re brilliant, and the party's best hope.” Teasingly, he adds on a wink, “I’m going to make such a good First Husband, T, you’ve got to make it happen.” 

That startles a laugh out of her and he beams, the lines around his eyes creasing, no doubt pleased with himself for easing her rising tension. Well, he’s not wrong: he's already mastered matching his socks and neckties to her outfits.

“Okay," Scott starts. "Say ‘bye bye’ to Mommy, Eliza. She has to do important work now, but we'll see her tomorrow.” 

“Bye bye, Mommy,” her baby waves, then brings her right palm up to her mouth, gives it a big kiss, and throws her hand towards Tessa. “Love you!” 

Tessa makes a show out of catching the kiss to hear Eliza giggle, sending her own affirmations of love.

“I love you, Tess,” Scott tacks on himself. “I'm so proud of you.” 

Tessa thinks his eyes are misting just a little bit, but he tries to salvage his reputation with, “Go save the world, don’t let me down!”

Kaetlyn knocks on the door again and Tessa ends the call with her own flying kisses and promises to see them soon.

She wipes her palms down the sides of her dress as she stands and makes her way towards the door. She takes a deep breath and plasters on her most charismatic smile just as her old mentors are led inside.

“Patrice, Marie-France,” Tessa shakes their hands. “Thank you so much for meeting with me on such short notice.”

* * *

 _Tessa Virtue, the chosen one to save The Citizens’ Party_  
_By Tracy Wilson, political correspondent Ottawa, Ontario_ _  
_ _Published 8:02 PM_

_Tessa Virtue at 36 years old is the youngest leader of The Citizens’ Party, and only its third female leader._

_Her rise to leadership may have been a surprise to the rest of the country, with her being so young and seemingly inexperienced, but in Ontario, Ms Virtue is a trusted household name._

_Ms Virtue won the seat of London North Centre in the 2015 election with 57.8 percent of votes. Her victory her constituents credits to her evident love for the community where she was born and raised._

_“You still see her out and about town, and she gives you her undivided attention when you come up to her to talk about your concerns--even if she’s with her family,” said one London North Centre constituent celebrating Ms Virtue’s new role._

_He added, “I voted for her to be mayor years ago and now I get to see my son and daughters be so inspired by her.”_

_In 2004, Ms Virtue graduated from Western University with an undergraduate degree in Psychology and was then personally scouted and mentored by Mayor Shae-Lynn Bourne to work on her Education initiative to get more young girls into STEM, long before STEM was a buzzword._

_Ms Virtue progressed up to Councillor in 2006, and was elected as Mayor of the City of London in 2010._

_Marina Zoueva, infamous campaign manager, now mother-in-law to the current Prime Minister, was so impressed with Ms Virtue then that she managed Ms Virtue’s successful mayoral bid to “get Tessa’s brilliance [to] shine” ._ _  
_

_At Parliament Hill, similar sentiments are shared._

_Shadow Minister of Justice, Patrick Chan started at Parliament Hill at the same time as Ms Virtue. He is “sad to see Mr Stojko resign [as leader of the party]”, but “very pleased” that it was Ms Virtue to replace him._

_Mr Chan adds, “Tessa is so articulate, so organised and poised, and so dedicated to making sure that the people who trusted her to help them better their lives have every opportunity to do so.”_

_Speaking at a press conference this afternoon, Ms Virtue declared that current Citizens’ Party policy platforms will still stand, “especially” the controversial mandatory vaccination plan that Ms Virtue helped devise._

_Although, she “hope[s] to build on them further to make sure that Canada can be even more inclusive and compassionate”._

_When asked what that would entail, Ms Virtue demurred. “I’m going to wait for the Citizens’ Party caucus to gather this afternoon before making any changes to the campaign plans for the next five weeks.”_

_She did reveal that her husband, Scott Moir, was “so proud” when she made the call to him this afternoon to reveal her new role, adding, “He’s my biggest supporter.”_

_Mr Moir, a figure skating coach and consultant for High Performance Sport Canada is the primary caregiver of the couple’s two year old daughter._

_The two met at ages six and nine at the Ilderton Skating Club, paired up as ice dancers for three years until Virtue’s acceptance to the National Ballet of Canada at age nine._

_They lost contact, until a chance encounter during Virtue’s mayoral campaign in 2010._

_“I think fate just had plans for us,” Mr Moir has previously stated._

_Political commentator Brian Orser expects Ms Virtue to rebrand the_ _Citizens’ Party into something “more relevant and relatable.”_

_"For the past two election cycles, the Citizens’ Party has lost sight of their social democratic roots, trying to sell neoliberalism as necessary [...] and they've lost their voter base because of it"._

_But now, Orser explains, “Everyone is hoping for the youth and the working class vote because they're being roused from their usual non-participation. For the past decade, the political establishment's single minded focus on economic growth has left them behind--and very noticeably._

_“Ms Virtue won't have the novelty of being a woman leader, but she has the advantage of being a blank slate. Everyone in Ontario knows her, but the rest of Canada don't know anything about her personality or her politics._

_“She has the chance to present herself as an ally.”_


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very very very much to Maria (@tisaqueen) for figuring out timezones, giving me deadlines so I can function, for making sure I make sense, for her timely editing, and for making sure I have self esteem. None of this is possible without her.

**(Thirty-six days until the election)**

**(3:55 PM)**

When Tessa arrived at The Hill just over three years ago and was shown to her new office, upon seeing its worn grey carpet, beige walls, and standing steel shelves behind the clunky black desk, her first thought was that it was... maybe a few decades outdated.

It didn't help that her frame of reference was the home office that Scott had renovated for her in London, and now here in Ottawa. That office had been decorated in crisp shades of white and marbled grey, a patterned wool rug in ivory under her glass desk which overlooked the rest of the room dotted with houseplants in terracotta pots and framed prints of Degas’ ballerinas. It was a room full of light and space to explore any idea she conjured up.

Her expectations were simply too high, still on the wave of euphoria after being elected for her first term. She was, after all, still just a back-bencher for the Opposition. Of course her office would be the most uninspiring. But she’d done her best with it. 

Transplanting the wool rug in ivory to lay under the coffee table and the old brown Chesterfield sofa pushed against the wall nearest the window’s light, bringing in new houseplants to freshen the recycled air as much as to bookend the stacks of paper and books on the steel shelf. She’d framed and hung the most promising of the acrylics and watercolours Eliza presents her, done on standard A4 sheets that Tessa’s almost certain the toddler and Scott smuggle out of her home office, a study of blobs and flecks of colour that easily rivalled Pollock, always with _Eliza_ and the date written on the bottom right hand corner in Scott’s penmanship. At the very least, her office could be considered welcoming. 

But despite the atmosphere of warmth she’s cultivated, it does nothing to ease her tension now. 

Tessa had pulled her desk chair to sit on one side of the coffee table, with her ankles crossed, right elbow on her thigh as she cups her chin, her left arm holds up the folder of opposition research on herself. She’s focusing on regulating her breathing as she takes in the information, trying to keep her face pensive and stoic, but her saliva has thickened and there’s burning sensation in the back of her throat making her feel choked. The migraine she’s felt creeping since noon becomes harder to ignore as it turns into a throbbing ache behind her left eye. 

Marie-France and Patrice sit across from her on the sofa, each nursing a cup of tea, sweeping their gaze over Tessa's hunched posture, and waiting, perhaps testing, for her response.

But what's the dignified response to receiving confirmation that your parents divorced because your father had been having an affair with his secretary? Of all the cliched things--she’d had her suspicions, of course. What man was happy to see his wife leave for another city to accompany their daughter for weeks at a time? 

The divorce was finalised while Tessa was still on bedrest and depressed. So Jordan and her brothers had been tight lipped on what Kate and Jim’s “irreconcilable differences” were, fearing that if they upset Tessa too much and further break her idealised image of their parents’ marriage that she’d never recover. They didn't have to say anything, her parents had done that all on their own. Her temple continues to throb, and coupled with her empty stomach, it makes her lightheaded, see black spots in her vision, enough to make her sway forward in her seat as if she were to fall face down. But she catches herself before she tips too far, and she leans her back against the backrest, relying on it to keep her up. 

But why was she surprised by all this? Men were always disappointing. 

Case in point, there's Fedor on page three with his whispers of a seduction and an affair while she was seeking re-election. 

Pages five, six, seven and eight, she flicks through pictures of herself from Western holding solo cups no doubt filled with cheap vodka or beer, pouting at the camera while in short skirts and crop tops, her cleavage and midriff exposed while she'd pressed flush against someone tall, dark and handsome from one of her business classes--or maybe it was a guy from stats? All of them set to a backdrop of drunk twenty-somethings going hard at post-exams dorm parties. 

Bitterly she knows that she'll be labelled an irresponsible party girl, a poor role model for the precious children of Canada, and at worst a slut who sought (and perhaps continues to seek--despite her family life being presented by the press as the paragon of family values) the attention of men. She was _nineteen_.

A side by side image that her surgeon took of her profile a week before her nose job and another two weeks later takes up pages eleven and twelve. What will all those young girls she mentored think of her now, after she told them that they were brilliant and beautiful just as they were? What will _Eliza_ think of her when she's old enough to understand? She and Scott are doing their best to nurture a self assured and confident child, but what about when she reaches adolescence, with all the pressures of youth? Would she doubt everything Tessa had ever made her believe? That last thought chills Tessa's blood.

And Scott. She knows everything about him, and him her, and god, she loves him, but why does he have a whole of nine pages dedicated to him, of text with complementary photographs and a print out of an email sent just this morning by his ex-girlfriend to Tracy Wilson, a journalist Tessa has known since she was working for Shae-Lynn, with accusations on the subject line?

She scans through it all, taking in the details she's only heard the other side of, the pictures that prove their half-truths, and the email that spins a web of falsities written out of righteous indignation. And she releases a breath she's ashamed to have held in at all. She knows all of this already, he'd confessed it to her bits at a time over the course of their first summer together as an official couple, as she'd pillowed her head on his chest, their legs tangled together after making love. She's proud of how much he's grown and matured and become responsible since his failed Olympic career. But seeing it in print makes it look a lot more problematic than it ever was. She wants to groan at the mess it could make of them. 

“Is that all?” Tessa asks when she finally looks up, rubbing insistently at the bridge of her nose. 

Patrice hums, taking one final sip of tea before putting his cup down on the table. “Your brother has a couple of speeding tickets from 2015 that he hasn't paid yet, and your sister got ticketed for parking in front of a fire hydrant last month, but those are minor enough to ignore. Just make sure they pay them off quickly. 

“We only had two days, but usually when a person’s been a public figure for as long as you have, things are easy enough to find since people are ready to squeal. Any other skeletons you have are well buried: well done.”

Patch looks wickedly gleeful at the end of his speech. It’s disconcerting. She knows that the point of this meeting is to judge how she deals with stress in real time, see if she has a chance to win, whether she’s worth backing with his and Marie’s clout. Tessa has always known Patch as honest and frank, but never callous. Never when the issue is her family, her feelings. 

Tessa knew Marie first. Her marketing professor turned mentor who introduced her to politics as an art of making the impossible possible, as deft and practiced, as difficult and as rewarding as ballet had been. But Tessa hadn’t been able to reconcile Marie’s optimism and theory with reality until she was invited to dinner one night in the Dubreuil-Lauzon household where she was offered unfettered access to a Minister in Cabinet. Patch had answered her every question, her most naive ones to her most cynical, with patience, measure, and good humour. At twenty years old, while her peers were floundering trying to get a foothold on their own personality, Tessa found her second calling. 

Tessa can understand why Patrice is being obtuse--that their opponents will be even more so. But where did that old Patch go? 

She doesn't move to say anything. What _is_ there to say. Instead she stares above Patch’s head, at the two panels of acrylics her daughter made, of what are meant to be the flowers they saw at the botanical garden but really just looks like multi coloured swirls, and trying desperately to find comfort in the innocence of the image.

Marie clears her throat and leans forward in her seat. Once Tessa makes eye contact Marie inquires, “If I were a member of the press and I asked you ‘Did you seduce Fedor Andreev to get Marina Zoueva to be your campaign manager in 2006 and 2010, and later in 2014?’ How would you respond?”

And there’s the test. 

When Tessa and Scott made their preparations for her bid for leadership, they’d compiled her ideas and research into a binder and had copies made. In their enthusiasm, perhaps naive optimism, they’d been remiss in their plans for the actual politicking that would occur. She had always left that for Marina to handle. 

Tessa adjusts her posture to sit with her back ramrod straight and her knees pressed together. “I never seduced Fedor.” She restrains herself from adding ‘Have you ever met him?’. “We met at university, we were together barely a year. I met Marina a couple of times and she liked me. Fedor and I broke up, but when I ran for council, I emailed her asking for advice and she said I should just hire her. So I did. When I ran for mayor I just called her and asked if she wanted to be my campaign manager again. She did. I didn’t have to seduce anyone.” 

Marie and Patch turn to each other and contemplate her answer. 

“We need more than that, Tessa,” Patch warns. “Marina does federal campaigns. I mean no offence, but what would compel her to stoop to a local election? You know people are going to gossip.” 

Tessa rubs at her left temple and sighs heavily. Why can’t it be enough to accept that she was worth “stooping” for. And if anything, why shouldn't people gossip about how Marina abandoned _her_ in the middle of her re-election campaign in favour of preparing Fedor's new wife for a federal campaign. 

“Fedor had nothing to do with Marina’s confidence in me. I was already _married_ to Scott when I ran for re-election in 2014, and Fedor was with Meryl. Maybe Fedor had an affair during that time, but it certainly wasn’t with me. I love my husband,” Tessa fumes, “it’s not my problem that Fedor doesn’t love Meryl the same.” 

Silence shocks the room. 

Her former mentors' eyes big out. Tessa had always kept her more malicious thoughts to discuss in private with Scott or Jordan, never daring to voice them with anyone else for fear that others would think poorly of her.

“We believe you, Tessa,” Marie affirms, letting the matter rest. Though Tessa can see the raise of Patch’s brow, a clear indication he wanted more information. 

“What about your father?” Patch prompts instead, carrying on the questioning. “He’ll stain the image of family that you’ve built with Scott. What will you do if someone interviews him? Does he even support your platform?”

Tessa wrinkles her nose. Why are men always creating problems for her to fix?. “I would tell anyone that asked that my father made his choices and those are for him to live with. My mom and my siblings and I have flourished without him.”

Patch twists his mouth. “Is that it?”

She nods. 

Patch sighs and shakes his head knowing she won’t offer anything else. “Your tone is too embittered. There needs to be room for reconciliation, even if we know it’s not going to happen.” He waves his right hand dismissively, “You can work on it.” They all know she will not. 

“And how would you explain to young women your rhinoplasty?” Patch carries on. 

Tessa stills. Her palms sweat with the knowledge that this one is on her. She’s thought of this before. In great detail while she was running for MP. She’d been anxious that someone might dig up old NBC programmes with pictures of her and compare them to her campaign headshots on billboards and buses. Her first thought had been to dismiss people’s comments with ‘It’s my body, it was my choice.’ But she knew that it wouldn’t have been constructive; young women, perhaps even her own daughter, would just follow her lead and change everything aesthetic about themselves rather than addressing the root of their insecurities. 

“I would tell them that I was at a very low point in my life,” she begins slowly, keeping eye contact with Patch. “That I had to give up my dreams of being a ballerina even though I was on track to becoming a principal. I had a chronic injury that surgery couldn’t fix.” Tessa swallows thickly. “Every deprivation I imposed on myself since I was six years old in pursuit of my goals was wasted. A nose job was the one fix I could make for certain.” She pauses to gather her nerves. “But I do wish I could go back and take eighteen-year-old Tessa’s hand and tell her that she’s good enough just as she is, because she was.” 

“That’s good!” Patch exclaims. He even claps thrice. “We’ll just have to work on your wording so it doesn’t invite anymore digging into your family’s role on the matter. Right, Marie?” he turns to his wife.

Marie nods sagely. “But you’ve got the right balance between redemptive and empowering.”

Tessa sighs. She was aiming for genuine sincerity. 

“I won’t say anything about the partying,” Marie says. “But you better have policies for making universities safe places for young women to make up for it.”

“And the accusations against Scott?” Patch interjects before Tessa could form a response to Marie. 

But Tessa doesn’t miss a beat. “I know my husband. Those accusations are false.” 

“But what if they are true?” Patch presses. “You can’t know _everything_ about him. Men lie. Just look at your father.”

At this, the interested wide-eyed expression Tessa had been sporting out of politeness since the inquisition began transforms into contempt. Her nostrils flare, her brows furrow so deep and her eyes narrow into an icy glare. In the years they’ve known her, neither he or Marie have ever seen Tessa with an expression less than pleasant. 

Patch lost the election two cycles ago, while the campaign manager then too, which was why he resigned as an MP shortly after. Tessa knows this election could be his redemption. She understands why he and Marie won’t offer her their services out of friendship. But most of all, Tessa knows that she needs him and Marie more than they need her. It’s because of that that she’s endured his insensitivity since he handed her the folder right after accepting his tea. Not anymore. 

Tessa crosses her arms across her chest and directs her glower at Patch. And she repeats in a firm voice, leaving no room for argument, “I know my husband. I trust my husband. Those accusations are false.” 

Patch and Marie look at each other, conducting a conversation with just their eyes, contemplating the suitability of Tessa’s answers. Tessa sets her gaze on their exchange, noting every time their eyes dart across each other’s faces, when their eyebrows quirk up at points of what she assumes are contentions. 

After all the support Patch and Marie gave her and Scott during her failed mayoral re-election in 2014 there’s no other campaign manager she’d rather have to trust with her vision. When Marina deserted them on the latter half of that campaign, she’d left Tessa with a confused policy platform, in a state of constant anxiety and insecurity, messing up debates and speeches and meet and greets that should have been second nature to her as the incumbent. Scott could do nothing other than hug her close when he could, offer soothing reassurances and affirmations, so that she’d be forced to regulate her breathing even just for a little while. 

Patch was still the Minister of Finance then, trying to pull together a Budget that everyone could agree on, trying to keep the economy functioning, and still spend time with his own family. But he had sought Tessa out directly after learning about Marina’s departure and offered her an open line of communication for unsolicited advice. And Marie, though overwhelmed herself setting up her consultancy firm with a two year old daughter in tow, had taken Scott aside and coached him to manage the highs and lows of being a political spouse. 

Shoma still won that election, however marginally. And though he was a fair and respectful opponent, Tessa will always believe that she should have won--although, she knows she’s far from unbiased, especially with Scott’s well intentioned goading. But once Tessa had had time to lick her wounds and decided to try her hand at federal politics, Patch and Marie had offered their support then too, even if only unofficially. 

Tessa awaits their judgement in tense silence. Her heart is beating so loudly in her chest she can feel its reverberations all over the body, and her body feels too warm for comfort. And then, almost in slow motion, Tessa makes out a small nod from Patch, just a single downward tilt of his chin. 

It’s Marie who breaks their gaze, turning to grin at Tessa and quips, “I’ve noticed you rubbing at your face. Now, either you need some ibuprofen or a glass of wine.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and to Tessa’s surprise produces both from her handbag, complete with clear plastic cups. “Which one do you want first?” 

She should question how she got alcohol into the building, and reply with ‘No, Marie, I don’t need a drink. It’s barely five in the afternoon. We’re on public property.’ 

She should ask for confirmation that they’re actually joining her team. Inquire about their plans for rebranding. She should demand an apology for their tone during their questioning. 

Instead, Tessa says, “The painkillers first, please.” 

It’s been a long day. She can call Kaetlyn in to take minutes. She could be the next prime minister of Canada. This deserves a celebration before the schmoozing and the pandering and the compromising of morals begin. 

* * *

**(5.07 PM)**

In another office on The Hill with more natural light and floor space, Marina Zoueva leans over Meryl Davis’ shoulder as she sits behind her carved desk and peers at the day’s polls. 

“Announcing on Friday so everyone can talk about her on the weekend, ha!” Marina laughs. “And talks about Scott? Tessa always knows how to make drama for the masses.” 

Meryl is not so amused. “Yes, yes, Tessa’s smart,” she dismisses, “but what do we do with these polls? They’re higher than we planned for.” 

Marina rolls her eyes. “I just said, it’s only today’s poll. On Monday we release plans for lowering youth unemployment, by Tuesday they forget her,” she says with her hands open, shoulders shrugging, appeasing. “Tessa’s an MP for three years only. She’s smart and charismatic the establishment wants experience. You’re incumbent, you increase GDP by one hundred fifty billion, you made peace with America. Stop worrying.” 

Meryl spins her seat around to face her mother-in-law and scowls. “And what happens if they don’t forget about her? Marina, we need to take this seriously. We’re not going against just another middle aged white man. Tessa has _charisma_ and people have short attention spans,” she insists, fretting with the hem of her skirt. She does well to garner votes from the business sector and the white middle class, but if Tessa Virtue is aiming for everyone else then they need to shut it down before she gains considerable momentum.

“You just answered your own question,” Marina replies, crossing her arms and leaning back against the windowsill, a picture of ease. “There’s only a month left before people vote. Tessa will go viral, and people will forget. Then you bring home the votes. Besides,” she shrugs, “Tessa will want to shut down oil, and tax the rich. Our party safe seats are in oil and money. Trust me, Meryl, poor people don’t have time to vote.” 

“Marina,” she tries one more time. “As the Prime Minister, I’m asking you to do this. Please make a plan. Schedule photo-ops, meet and greets, anything. We need to beat her in her own game.” 

“Fine!” Marina concedes, “we make plans," throwing her hands up and shaking her head mockingly, muttering in Russian that Meryl can’t understand.

* * *

**_8:04 AM - 16 Sept 2019 (or, thirty-three days until the election)_ **

_Rod Black_ _  
_ _@_rodblack_

 _Former Minister of Finance Patrice Lauzon joins The Citizens’ Party election campaign as new campaign manager, along with Marie-France Dubreuil as new communications director (1/2)_.  
.  
.

 _Replying to @_rodblack_ _  
_ _Virtue says major campaign changes to be announced on Wednesday in campaign relaunch at Victoria Park, London, Ont at 5pm (2/2) #CanadianElection2019_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Degas is inspired by bucketofrice's art gallery au. And yes, I quoted Hillary.
> 
> As always, if there is an election: vote!!


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, the first half of the semester was hard. 
> 
> This chapter was supposed to get to the actual politics but I didn't have time to get to that point. We decided it was probably better to get something out before I disappear for another 8 weeks to finish my degree. Also, I may be in over my head. I know politics and policy, but I don't actually know campaigns. So if anything sounds sketchy let's just pretend Tessa and her campaign are very innovative. 
> 
> Thanks to Maria, and a belated happy birthday. Thanks for writing parts of it and being a great cheerleader.

**(Thirty-five days until the election)**

**(5:09 AM)**

She’s in front of the bathroom mirror trying to lean forward to see better to apply concealer, but Scott hugs her from behind, impeding her movements. His left hand is fisting her hair away from her face, a firm tug on her roots, as he’d reasoned it would be more efficient this way than looking for a hair tie. Of course, he’d used it as an excuse to tilt her head to the side to trail hot, open mouthed kisses along her neck, behind her ear, and with the occasional nip followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue. His right hand disappears under her sleep shirt as he uses his fingertips to stroke and stroke her lower abdomen, painstakingly slow. The whole experience borders between ticklish and tantalising, and it really isn’t an efficient way to go about her morning routine.

Tessa has to close her eyes for just a moment to take in the warmth in her heart and the zinging sensation spreading from low in her belly that’s making her toes curl in her house slippers. She can’t stop the long, throaty hum that she releases. Scott snickers in response. She can feel him smirk as he continues his assault on her neck and lower abdomen. If only he’d stroke a little lower. But they both know they don’t have time for that this morning. 

When Tessa opens her eyes again to look at the mirror, Scott has raised his head and is instead leaning his cheek against his temple, a sly grin across his face and his eyes full of mirth as it meets her own in the mirror. This cocky husband of hers knew what he was doing. She pouts and playfully glares at his reflection. “Watch it, mister,” she warns, and emphasises her point by reaching back and pinching his side. He quickly drops his hold on her hair as he jumps back and shrieks out a laugh. 

“You play dirty,” he pouts himself, rubbing his hand against where she squeezed.

Tessa grins as she watches him, pleased with herself. While she’s alone she picks up the concealer brush to try again. She’s got one undereye done and she moves to work on the other, but Scott attaches himself to her back again. She emits a combination of a sigh and a chuckle, shakes her head at his antics but can’t keep the smile off her face. 

“Scooooott,” she whines, “I have a car picking me up at six. What you’re doing feels good, but you need to stop it!”

He huffs. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?” he asks, peppering kisses on the apple of her cheek, trying to annoy her into conceding.

“Yes,” Tessa giggles, eyes squinted, as she bats his face away. “But stop and hold my hair up seriously this time.” 

“‘Seriously’,” he parrots back. “Yeah, I’ve got it.” And when Tessa looks at him in the mirror he’s lowered his eyebrows and is focused at a distant spot somewhere in the mirror. His chin is propped up by the back of his right hand, and his lips are pursed--an expression of deep contemplation. 

She bursts into a fit of giggles again, needing to lean her forearms against the sink as she bends at the waist because of the force of her laughter. He’s really not that funny at all, she knows, but she can’t help it. And she’s more than willing to relish in laughter now before needing to transform into a serious politician within the next hour.

He’s trying to keep himself from laughing, Tessa can tell, as he tries to be stern and accuse, “Tess, you said to be serious, and look who’s not being serious now!” And he goes in for the kill, tickling under both of her armpits. 

Tessa pulls her arms in and surges further forward and shrieks out, laughing louder. She stretches her right arm out to the side and flaps it about to get him to stop. She’s ruining her work by wiping the tears in her eyes against her forearm, when Scott steps back. Instantly, she misses the warmth of his body pressed against hers. Tessa gives herself another moment attempting calming breaths, letting her giggles peter out, before standing back upright and chancing a glance at her husband. 

From the pocket of his boxers he produces one of her hair ties, and with it he secures her hair into a loose low ponytail with no fuss. The little sneak. And he has the audacity to wink. He pecks her cheek again and says, “I’ll go get your dress. Do you still want to wear your mom’s watch and the rose gold Jimmy Choos?” 

“Yes, please!” she chirps as she reaches for a blender to try to smooth the tone along her jawline.

Scott nods and turns to go back into their room. 

Without distractions, she goes through the laundry list of necessary additions to her usual moisturiser, lipstick, and mascara combo. With the number of cameras in her face now, she needs to put in more effort than she’d like. 

She chooses from her impressive palette two darker tones that will do wonders for her eyes--or as Scott says, ‘Make them go  _ kapow _ !’. Tessa smiles to herself. She applies eyeshadow without any mishap, but when she moves on to liquid eyeliner it just won’t comply, so her right eye is slightly crooked compared to the left. But it will do. Only the blogs ever have a problem with it. 

As she reaches for her eyelash curler, Tessa considers how she’ll style her hair to make herself look humble but firm before everyone in the Citizens’ Party headquarters. She, along with Patch, will have to present their strategy for the next five weeks and accept everyone’s criticisms. She’d prefer a low bun just to keep her hair away from her face as she deals with everything on today’s agenda, but even that would look too serious against the floral design of her white dress. Any kind of ponytail would look too casual. 

The concessions on strategy that Tessa had made for Marie and Patch had sounded foolproof enough as they wrote it down, but since leaving her office late last night to be alone to stew in her own mind, she’d been having second thoughts. 

Marie had gotten excited about changing the aesthetic of their campaign material completely to something that will flatter Tessa’s complexion. On that point, Tessa had silently agreed because the purple of the Citizens’ Party could be so flattering for everyone if it were finally used with proper accents. 

They’d agreed to keep all standing policy promises and not to announce any more at the risk of confusing voters. Instead, they’re going to focus their messaging on employment, education, and the environment--agreeable topics, complemented with just enough spin and attack ads to stay on top of the attacks Meryl’s camp will make in retaliation. They’re going to personalise their media to make it more obvious who their audiences are, up the fluff pieces, double down on fundraising; the policies Tessa had compiled in her binder had to be set aside. 

When Tessa closes her eyes, she can see the reaction so clearly. ‘What happened to Virtue’s vows of delivering wellbeing and inclusiveness and change to the status quo’, the headlines will ask. ‘She’s just a pretty face’, Meryl’s camp will slap back. Tessa wants to prove them all wrong and exceed everyone’s expectations. But with five weeks before the election, any small change could cost the party the House. And with Meryl’s plans for more tax breaks and an increase in fracking after the election, Tessa knows she can’t allow herself to stay in Opposition for another four years. 

She applies bronzer to her face and neck, more important now given the low neckline of today’s dress. There’s a voice inside her head preaching chaos, telling her to get Kaetlyn to swap out Patrice’s PowerPoint with the one she’d created when she decided to run for leadership, keep him in the dark until the moment came to present and leave him gaping and unable to kick up a fuss in front of the caucus and the party president. That way they’ll be forced to do as she’s wanted. 

But she knows creating friction with her newly hired, and widely publicised campaign manager would spell certain doom for her. She doesn’t need Marie to explain the optics to her.

She begins lining her lips, when Scott makes his re-entrance carrying her outfit for the day. 

“Scott,” she turns from the mirror to face him. Tessa wants to ask ‘Am I being a fraud?’ but she goes with “Hair up or down?”

He pauses in place, two steps behind her, and tilts his head to the right, looks down at the dress draped on his arm and then up at her face. He squints, then hums, before settling with “Hair down, I think. Just natural.” 

Tessa turns back to the mirror to scrutinise her face. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she accepts. At the very least, it will make her appear serene even if her stomach will inevitably turn at having to be judged by everyone present. 

She puts the lipstick back in her make-up bag before starting to unbutton her sleep shirt. When she’s down to the last two, she turns around and is met with Scott holding up her watch, her beige, lace bra, and a slip in one hand, and her dress and heels in the other. She sends him a grateful smile and accepts the bra and slip when he offers them to her, but before putting them on she steps towards her sweet, well-trained husband and gives him a quick peck on the lips. She’s rewarded with his patented smile, squinted eyes and lines beside his eyes, her favourite. 

Scott stoops to put her heels down beside her before taking the dress draped over his arm, unzipping it, and opening it up for Tessa to step into. And she does so, her hand on his shoulder for balance. When she turns around, Scott zips up her dress with no nonsense, just places a kiss on the back of her neck when he’s done. She smiles to herself. 

As she releases her hair from its ponytail and grabs her brush, Scott places her watch on the counter to her left, turning to leave, saying, “I’ll go pack your breakfast.” 

“No, stay,” she grabs onto his wrist quickly and pulls him towards her. “Kaetlyn can get me something later. Tell me what you’re going to do today.”

So again Scott presses himself against her back but doesn’t lean his head against her neck as before, instead leaving his hands to rest on her waist to leave her room to do her thing. 

“We’ll probably watch Sleeping Beauty while eating breakfast, and another two times after that,” he begins. Eliza has been obsessed with waltzing of late, which is something Scott is more than happy to accommodate. Tessa has at least five videos on her phone of Scott holding the toddler close to his chest, one arm supporting her bottom and the other raised to hold Eliza’s hand in dance hold, humming along and swaying around the living room at the same pace as Aurora and Phillip do on the TV, all the while Eliza focuses on her father’s eyes, swinging her legs, garbling out a string of lyrics that bears  _ some  _ resemblance to  _ Once Upon a Dream _ .

“There’s storytime at the library,” Scott continues. “I’ll make sure to limit her to just five books, we can’t have her hiding them away and getting fined for overdue books now that you’re going to be Prime Minister,” he chuckles.

Tessa knows it’s supposed to be a joke, but a part of it stings. 

“If I can get Eliza to settle and do some painting--yes, I’ll make her wear the overalls and send you a picture,” he says when she notices her eyes brightening, leaning to press a kiss on the back of her head. That gets a whoop from Tessa. 

“I’m going to look at the videos Marjorie and Zach sent and make some notes. They said they’re not happy with their transitions into rotational lift, but I think they’re just being a bit harsh on themselves at this point in the season. They just need to get a bit more comfortable. But I’ll see what I can do,” he shrugs.

“I’m sure you’ll help them with what they need,” she says sincerely. “And tell them I believe in them and that we’ll be having dinner together when we’re campaigning in Montreal.”

“Will do. That should get Marjo excited.” He smiles fondly at her. “I’ll get the laundry going while I make lunch, but, oh--I forgot to tell you: the baby spilt tomato sauce on her shirt at dinner and I just can’t deal with that stain, I’m going to throw it out,” he sighs.

Tessa quirks her brow at his reflection. “Which shirt?”

“The Teletubbies one.”

“The yellow?” 

Scott shakes his head, “The green.”

Tessa hums and nods as she parts her hair. “That’s okay, at least it wasn’t the jammies.” If it had been the yellow jammies, Tessa would put up a fight. Eliza looks like a chubby little Teletubbie herself, and she and Scott are equally besotted with tying her hair into a single ponytail on top of her head and getting her to sing “Eh-oh!” in her sweet, high voice.

“Then lunch with you. I’m bringing pie!” he pats her hip in excitement. 

She stops spraying fixer to look up at him. “What kind?” she asks, expectant. She  _ loves _ pie. 

“It’ll be a surprise.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her reflection. At her stare, Scott amends: “Most likely rhubarb.”

“That’s better,” she pats his hand on her hip. Another thing to look forward to for lunch. 

She puts the hairspray down, finishing by straighten some strands of hair, and she turns in the circle of Scott’s arms to face him. She raises her arms to interlock her fingers against his nape, using her thumbs to play with the ends of his hair. He’s due for a haircut but she likes being able to play with his locks. She pulls his forehead down to hers. Scott’s hands, which had settled on the dip of her lower back to pull her closer against his front, migrates to either side of her hips where his thumbs begins a slow, steady stroke. Either one of them could start humming and they could sway along if they wanted to, imitate a waltz. But they just stand still, pressed together, and breathe. She can pick out the layers of his smell, traces of his lemongrass cologne, the sweetness of milk from the bottle Eliza demanded at three in the morning, and the cookies he snuck into bed for her before sleep. But over it all, the heady scent of  _ Scott _ , so constant that at this point she’s biologically attuned to it, just a whiff can make her mouth water. 

She takes a deep breath. It’s intoxicating, comforting, bliss. 

Under the yellow hue of the bathroom’s fluorescent light they can pretend they’re just a man and a woman, just Scott and Tess: a supportive coach and a business woman, over-tired parents doing their best. Just Scott and Tess, with not the whole country’s future on their--her--shoulders.

Regrettably, Tessa breaks the comfort of their silence, pulling her head back to look him in the eye. She needs his opinion before she seals her fate in front of the party later in the morning, and he’s one of the few people she trusts to give her an honest one. 

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing with the rebranding? I know I had a different plan, but Marie-France and Patrice balked when I pitched it to them and they’ve done this more than I have.” 

Scott sighs. He’s felt the question coming since Tessa got home last night, hesitant to answer his queries about how her meeting with Marie and Patch went. “You say it yourself all the time: you have to be authentic. Now, I don’t know the polls as well as Marie and Patch, but if I was a normal guy who didn’t like the government because all they did was argue and attack each other, I think I’d like to see someone advocating for a lot more kindness in politics.” He shrugs. “But that’s just me.” 

It’s not just him. She’s thought the same thing a thousand times over. She wishes he didn’t downplay his role in their partnership. 

For the entirety of their relationship, Tessa had always been in public office. The start of their romantic relationship coincided with the beginning of her term as mayor. With best intentions, she knows, he had given her his advice freely on all matters policy that he had read in the  _ London Free Press _ , and it had been a nuisance. And then one day, over lunch while he told her his thoughts on raising residential property tax, she told him to get out of her office. He’d been stunned to silence (finally), and then much harrumphing and an exaggerated exit. But he came back four hours later, all apologies and promises never to impose again. (If only he’d write a handbook for other men on the Hill to follow). 

“I want to be authentic, Scott, but no one wants me to be,” she sighs, frustrated. “I don’t understand why Patch and Marie aren’t listening to me when I say I know the electorate. They’ve been in the game longer, but they haven’t had to step outside and talk to anyone with real problems in at least a decade! I have!” 

Scott runs his palms down the sides of her arms before pulling her into a hug. “I know. You’re right,” is all he says. The validation is nice. 

“I want to go back to my plan,” Tessa huffs into his neck 

He rubs her back, soothing. “Then go back to your plan, T. You’re the boss.”

“I am,” she agrees, fisting the back of his shirt. And then hesitant again, “But what if Patch is right and it makes us lose and Meryl keeps running the country to hell?” 

“Then you’ll be the fiercest, strongest, most ruthless Opposition the world has ever seen.” 

She scoffs. “That’s if I don’t get pushed out to resign.” 

“Hey now,” he pulls back to hold her at arms length to get her to look at him. “You’re the best leader the Citizen’s Party has had in about seventy years. No, no, don’t roll your eyes. I’ve read all the articles everyone’s ever published about you, and they all say that you’re sincere, brilliant, and savvy. You know you are--let’s leave the humility behind. 

“Now, you’re going to go to Party headquarters, you’re going to make them follow your lead--even Marie and Patch! And you’re going to make sure that everyone knows that you’re the best Prime Minister we’re going to have the privilege to have, and all the women and girls who’ll follow the election and your government will want to do the same good for the world.” He’s staring into her soul. “Do you believe me?”

She needs to. If she can’t do it for herself, at the very least she will do it for him. 

“Yes,” she replies. 

He smiles softly before resting his chin on top of her head, letting her nestle into his neck, and this time they do sway, following the beat of their hearts pressed against each other’s. 

Too soon Scott prompts her, “T, your car’s coming in a bit.”

She brings her wrist up and glances down at her watch, “Oh! Will you get my blazer and my bags, please?” As she says this, she scrambles to slide into her heels and out of the ensuite, out of their bedroom and towards Eliza’s nursery for her good morning kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world is crazy, so make sure to vote back sanity.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how campaigns work before a campaign trail so please don't @ me. 
> 
> I've interacted with quite a few people since the last chapter, and it's been so FUN. And I realised that none of that happiness would have been possible if months ago Maria hadn't answered one of my questions about VM's ballet collab and started our friendship and eventually propped me with with self esteem to attempt this fic. So thank you Maria, for your friendship and your support, and for staying up past your bedtime to edit! I'm so grateful for you. Moral of the story, DM your mutuals who you feel a kinship with and start friendships. Brene Brown your life.
> 
> Maria wishes everyone a happy beginning of the Grand Prix season!

**(Thirty-three days before the election)**

_From: Tessa Virtue, The Citizens’ Party < _ [ _tessa.virtue@citizensparty.org.ca_ ](mailto:tessa.virtue@parliament.govt.ca) _ > _

_To: Maria Bennet < _ [ _mariabennet42@gmail.com_ ](mailto:mariabennet42@gmail.com) _ > _

_Date: 16 September 2019_

_Dear Maria Bennet,_

_As you have probably heard, The Citizens’ Party’s new campaign slogan is now “We’ll do it together”._

_It reflects The Citizens’ Party’s belief that positive social change cannot happen in a vacuum. We have ambitious plans for delivering wellbeing for all Canadians, but we cannot do it alone. We know very well that it is the passionate people at the grassroots in the communities, doing the work of implementing the policies Parliament passes._

_I believe that the people know what the people need._

_A Citizens’ Party Government with me as its leader will empower communities to create and deliver the services their families need, by backing them with the resources and political support to do so._

_As an email subscriber, you’ll get access to the new Citizens’ Party Manifesto once it’s released tomorrow, straight in your inbox. But I still want to hear from you! In writing, or in person, via our website, on social media, or in whatever medium you’re most comfortable with!_

_I look forward to collaborating with you on policies, because as much as Canada is my home, it’s your home too._

_In the meantime, please consider making a donation to our campaign. The Citizens’ Party takes pride in the fact that we are backed by the people and not by big corporations, unlike our opponents this election._

_But donations aren’t the only thing you can chip in. Volunteer for The Citizens’ Party’s campaign. We rely on our volunteers to knock on doors, to make calls, to get the word on our policies out to people._

_Talk with your family, your friends, your community, get them thinking, informed, and excited about the election! Every little bit counts._

_I look forward to meeting you, listening to you, and championing your voice,_

_Sincerely,_

_Tessa Virtue, The Citizens’ Party_

* * *

**(Thirty-five days before the election)**

**(7:49 AM)**

“Let's be honest,” Patch says in a gruff, sitting forward on his perch on one end of the Chesterfield. “Meryl doesn't have a personality. She's relying on her policies to speak for her. Now, I'm not saying we don't have good policies, Tessa,” he corrects himself when he sees her raised eyebrow. “I'm just saying that voters are too lazy to do their own research and will let a candidate's charisma win them over. And you have charisma by the bucketload.”

“We’re going to focus on policies too,” Marie assures her, resting her hand on Tessa’s tense left shoulder. “But it’s election time and we need to worry a lot more about politicking than worrying about legislation. We can figure that out once we have a mandate.” 

Tessa has to restrain another sigh of frustration from escaping. She got into the office that morning ready and inspired to be reasonable and dialogic. Instead she’d been met with petulance. They’ve been at this since she’d sat down with the steaming mug of coffee and the pain au chocolat Kaetlyn had handed her as she walked through her office door that morning. 

Tessa had again pulled her desk chair to sit on one side of the coffee table opposite Patch on the couch to have this conversation, hoping that this time the vibe and the outcome will be considerably different to yesterday’s. And yet Kaetlyn is on her knees on the short end of the coffee table, hunched over her laptop, toggling between Patch’s PowerPoint and the one that Tessa had handed her on a USB stick in exchange for the pastry, trying to make  _ both  _ presentable for party headquarters as she’d been given conflicting instructions by Patch and Tessa. 

“I understand where you're coming from,” Tessa acquiesces. “And I can agree with most of your points, but I know I’m going to get accused of inexperience and smacked by misogyny as the campaign goes on. I think relying on  _ charisma  _ will just exacerbate them.” She turns to Marie, hoping that she will sympathise better than Patch is willing to. 

“We'll make sure the party platform speaks for you too,” Marie nods. “But your main voting bases: white suburban women, over sixty-fives, the middle class--their policy demands are very simple and predictable. We can give them that, no trouble. But so can Meryl. What decides it for people is if they feel like you’ll be tough on offloaders, and if they feel like they can have a beer or a glass of wine with you.” Marie’s voice rises, “You’re sorely underestimating the power that a classically pretty face has on people’s perceptions of approachability. What we have already is a marketing strategy that you can easily transfer onto your MP’s races.” 

Tessa wants to yell out in irritation. They’ve missed her point completely. But she purses her lips and leans forward and reaches for the pitcher of water to pour herself a glass instead. She sips, looking down the glass to avoid the expectant stares of Marie and Patch, allowing an awkward silence to settle to buy herself time to regroup. 

“What are we polling now?” Tessa tries again once she’s put her glass down on a coaster. 

“Twenty points as of 5 PM last night. That’s an eight point increase since your announcement,” Patrice recites. 

Tessa rolls her eyes. That just proves her point. “The Party hasn’t polled higher than twenty-five percent since 2014. What makes you think pushing the same strategy will change people’s minds, even if I have a pretty face to plaster on a billboard? No offence,” she tacks on. 2015, Patrice’s failure of a campaign, had been the result since the party had been incapable of reading the writing on the wall. She kind of means the offense. 

“Are we not just as bad as them if we’re trying to sell aesthetic solutions rather than actually addressing wicked problems?” Tessa charges. “We might as well concede to Meryl--at least she has policies. All we’re going to have are billboards in a nice shade of purple. How will that approach solve climate change or child poverty or low productivity?! It can’t!” 

Patch glares.

Tessa’s expecting an outburst from Marie but it never comes. Marie merely stands more ramrod straight, if that were still possible at this point, looking like she’s been slapped across the face. 

She’s just reduced and insulted Marie’s life’s research--she can understand if her mentor felt like retaliating. The part of her that still wants her mentor’s approval cowers. 

Kaetlyn’s furious typing finally pauses as she looks up, astonished at everyone’s loss of practised composure, her eyes wide and shifting, watching their reactions. 

“Look,” Tessa tries another angle, inching to the edge of her seat and planting her hands on her knees. “Commentators are saying we've been icing out our voting base. Isn't our party name literally advertising democratic process and citizen rule? I don't think selling charisma is a long term solution to declining voter turnout and the disenfranchisement that marginalised and vulnerable communities are feeling.”

Patrice scoffs, “Not this again,” he shakes his head before burying his face in his hands. 

Undeterred, she shakes her head and plows on. “Around sixty percent of eligible voters voted in 2015. It’s simple math. There are so many non-voters, we should go after  _ them _ . If we do end up retaining the twenty percent we’re polling now, what more if we get the absent forty percent of the population voting for us? We’d have a clear majority in the House!”

“Your optimism is inspiring, Tessa,” now it’s Marie’s turn to object. “But save it for the cameras on the campaign trail. Strategies like that will make you lose.” 

This time, Tessa does let out her exasperated sigh. “I’m not saying we abandon the marketing campaign and sit in culture circles instead. I’m saying that we have the chance to change the political dialogue. You know we need to,” she appeals to Marie, then to Patch, pointedly. She can’t afford to offend him another time by voicing what she’s referring to, but everyone in the room knows what she means. 

She tries telepathically to make him remember the frustration he felt at the sheer ignorance of people who succumbed to the brainwashing influence of the big money lobbies Meryl had going for her. 

“If that fails then that’s on me.” Tessa accepts. “I’ll take responsibility, I’ll resign. But until that happens, we’re doing this my way.” 

She’s met with only silence. 

Patch is refusing to meet her eyes. His eyes dart back and forth across the wall behind Tessa, she guesses he’s studying the titles on the bookshelf behind her desk. 

Marie still stands beside Tessa’s chair, but has tilted her body to be able to see out of the window, her jaw tight as her teeth clenches. 

Yet neither of her mentors object to the sudden change in plans, so cautiously, Tessa takes that as a good sign. 

“Kaetlyn,” Tessa softens her tone and swivels her seat slightly to face her assistant. “How’s my PowerPoint?” 

Kaetlyn startles. “Getting there. I just need a few more minutes,” she replies sheepishly.

Tessa nods, moving to lean back in her chair. 

The clicking of the mouse and the clacking of keys as Kaetlyn frantically pursues her task cuts through the silence of the room. Poor Kaetlyn, Tessa thinks. Like a child stuck between arguing parents, she can see beads of sweat gather on the young woman’s upper lip. 

Tessa can feel a similar kind of anxiety though. She, Marie, and Patch need to stop reverting to argument as opposed to positive communication before they get out to campaign in front of people and camera phones and gossip-filled Twitter. 

Is this a power issue, she wonders. For so long Marie and Patch had been directing her and she had gone out of her way to show her appreciation. Tessa recalls the day after her first dinner with Marie and Patch, looking up the rules on gifting for sitting MPs, agonizing, before settling on a bouquet of yellow roses and purple bellflowers with a handwritten note to send to Patrice’s office, and the most expensive box of chocolate truffles Tessa could afford at that time from Godiva for Marie. 

She’d kept more than a couple of notebooks that she had filled every time she got to be in their company. Those books still reside on the bottom left drawer of her desk at home.

But now  _ she’s  _ making demands of  _ them _ . 

But  _ she’s  _ the leader now, she reminds herself, she  _ should  _ be making demands. She thinks she's been reasonable thus far. But most importantly, in instances as the moment they’re occupying, she knows she has to lead by example. 

So Tessa clears her throat, catching Patch’s attention momentarily. “I’m sorry for raising my voice,” she yields. 

Marie snaps out of her reverie to turn and look at her, quirking her brow, waiting for the rest. 

“But you have to admit,” Tessa prods gently, “we need to be novel. Meryl’s platform is focused on economics, Donohue is on international trade and relations, and Gilles is on healthcare. We can go back to our democratic socialist roots and encompass all that and everything else that’s been neglected. And besides,” Tessa continues, “people abstain from voting because they think we’re petty children who don’t care about anyone else’s problems. So we’re going to be better. We’re going to revive democracy, just you wait,” her lips quirk up, hoping to diffuse the situation.

Marie sighs, shaking her head, “I want to believe you, Tessa, but changes like that takes months to plan and implement.” She looks to her husband. 

“We can do it,” Tessa interjects. “We’re already redoing the campaign material and you’ve projected that to only take five days! A slight change in script won’t set us back too long. And you’ve read my binder, I already have the script written.” Tessa turns to Patch now as well, pleading with her eyes.

“The moment the polls start dropping instead of rising we’re going back to the original plan. Got it?” Patch concedes. A wry smile starts to break across his face, although still closed lipped. “You should have been a diplomat instead,” he says. 

Tessa laughs dryly, throws her head back for good measure. “Don’t discount it yet. I plan on a long career,” she winks. 

“Okay, I’m done,” Kaetlyn interrupts, rising from her kneeling position and stretching her legs to get feeling back into them. She lifts the laptop and places it on the table in front of Tessa, clicking on  _ Present _ . 

Patrice stands to joins Marie on Tessa’s other side, albeit with his arms crossed. 

* * *

**(Thirty-two days before the election)**

_ The National Business Journal _

**_The reality of achieving net zero carbon emissions in Canada_ **

_ By Tatiana Tarasova _

_ 17 September 2019 _

_ COMMENT -- When Tessa Virtue stepped up to lead The Citizens’ Party, she told Canada that all party platforms would remain the same. Yet their new Manifesto released today had a significant number of changes. An area of marked difference is their climate change strategy.  _

_ Their policy a week ago was to set a federal minimum carbon tax rate that provinces must comply with and can, if they were so altruistic, go higher.  _

_ Today, carbon tax is still their policy, but is only  _ one _ part of their strategy.  _

_ A Citizens’ Party government will set an emissions cap on all industries producing semi carbon and methane (essentially  _ all _ businesses), while offering tax incentives for Research and Development for reversing the environmental damage accrued over the last century. _

_ They will also subsidise electric vehicles for urban and rural use, though which models are yet to be determined. This is coupled with a forty year plan for infrastructure that will facilitate smart, walkable cities. _

_ They plan to stop all oil production and coal mining in the country, and completely transition to renewable energy alternatives, with a re-education programme for all affected workers. _

_ The goal is for greenhouse gas emissions to reach net zero by 2050, achieving and surpassing Canada’s commitments to the Kyoto Protocol.  _

_ Their optimism is admirable, but as fracking and exploration booms across Canada and drives the growth in the country’s GDP, the strategy’s political feasibility--  _

_ Continued on page B11 →  _

...

_ London Free Press _

**_The Citizens’ Party’s revived Manifesto_ **

_ By Scott Russell _

_ 17 September 2019 _

_ [...] _

_ Currently, the highest bracket is a marginal rate of 33 percent for taxable income over $210,371, and the lowest at 15 percent for the first $47,630 of income.  _

_ The Citizens’ Party Manifesto outlines a more progressive income tax system, creating new tax brackets. The first $15,450 earned will not be taxed, while the highest bracket for income over $1,413,017 will be taxed at a rate of 52 percent.  _

_ This, some commentators believe, is in anticipation for the Global Wealth Report 2018’s projection of some two million Canadians achieving millionaire status by 2023.  _

_ The details on the Federal and Provincial divide on tax intake is unclear. Also unclear is how they will prevent people from funneling money into offshore accounts, or hiding income by converting them into assets.  _

_ [...] _

_ Furthermore, the Citizens’ Party plans to tie minimum wage to housing costs in each city.  _

_ Virtue explained, “Fifteen percent of all children in Canada live in households living below 50 percent of the median income. Canada’s median income right now is $59,800. After housing costs in cities like Toronto or Vancouver, $30,000 is essentially nothing. Families can’t send their children to school with nourishing food or proper equipment necessary to empower children to rise above adversity and eventually improve their household’s wellbeing.”  _

_ But businesses have begun voicing their concern for their margins.  _

_ Virtue responded, “Businesses don’t determine if they’re going to employ more or less people based on the cost of minimum wage. Businesses hire based on their need to supply. I have an MBA; I know.”  _

_ [...] _

_ All eyes are on tomorrow’s Citizens’ Party relaunch in Virtue’s hometown of London, Ontario.  _

...

_ Ottawa Inquirer  _

**_Electoral reform if Citizens’ Party elected government_ **

_ By Scott Hamilton _

_ Published 17 September 2019, 4:10 PM _

_ In a shocking twist, Virtue's Manifesto declares that if elected to government, the Citizens’ Party will hold a non-binding referendum within two years to determine the country’s appetite for a shift from FPP (First Past the Post) to MMP (Mixed-Member Proportional Representation).  _

_ A binding referendum would then be held in conjunction with the 2023 general election.  _

_ MMP is the same electoral system used in countries such as Germany, New Zealand, Scotland, and Wales.  _

_ Prime Minister Meryl Davis said her government has no plans for electoral reform. “There’s no need. Our system is working well as it is, and to hold referendums like that is just a waste of taxpayers’ money”, the incumbent told reporters gathered outside a Union Party fundraising luncheon this afternoon.  _

_ [...] _

* * *

**(Thirty-five days before the election)**

**(12:02 PM)**

A loud knock at the door interrupts Patch’s tirade on the merits of attack ads, and the succeeding soft taps against the wood ensures that Tessa knows who it is if she didn’t already. Kaetlyn rises from her seat to open the door, Tessa following close behind her with a grin beginning to stretch across her face. 

Once the door is opened wide enough for Eliza to see Tessa, the toddler squeals, bouncing forward with her arms raised upwards in anticipation of a hug. 

Tessa closes the space between them in two quick strides, lifting the girl into the circle of her arms and squeezing tight--enough that her baby giggles out a “Mommy!” while batting at her mother’s shoulder. 

When Tessa loosens her hold just a bit, Eliza brings up her arms to lock around Tessa’s neck, before nuzzling her forehead into the space just below her mother’s ear, her face hidden by the curtain of Tessa’s hair. She hears Eliza release a contented sigh before she relaxes and lays her head on her shoulder. 

Tessa can’t resist pressing kisses into the crook of her daughter’s neck and to take a deep inhale of her sweet, addicting scent: a mix of milk, baby shampoo, their preferred brand of fabric softener, and a hint of what hugs from Scott smells like. 

It’s a comforting warmth and smell and weight. Tessa thinks holding Eliza after long stretches of time away from her is akin to having a ray of sunlight flit across her face during the grey overcast of winter, warming her from the outside-in: a reprieve from the seemingly endless cold of wintertime, and a reminder of the upcoming spring. 

When Tessa looks up from nuzzling her baby, Scott is still standing on the threshold, the sleeves of his light down jacket rolled halfway up his forearms and his hair more windswept than usual, which just makes her want to comb her fingers through it. He’s sporting a besotted grin, holding the cooler bag with their lunch in his left hand and the white backpack with stickers of Elmo and Grover and Big Bird stuck haphazardly all over it with Eliza’s things slung over his right shoulder. 

Tessa tries to contain her hum to the back of her throat. He’s come to feed her lunch but he should really come with a tall glass of water. What is it about competent men with kind eyes and sharp jawlines, carrying diaper bags, that make them so attractive that she has to squeeze her thighs together where she stands. 

She breaks their gaze to step back and finally let him inside. Tessa directs an expectant glance at Marie and Patch, both still sitting on the couch, though they’ve abandoned their perusal of the papers on the table. Tessa raises one eyebrow and tilts her head towards the door. They get the idea. 

Scott's deposited his bags on Tessa’s desk and removed his jacket to reveal an olive coloured henley stretched across his chest and biceps, so when Patch makes his way to him, his hands are free to return the handshake and pat Patrice’s back on his way out. Marie makes his way to Scott too, kissing his cheeks, which Scott returns. 

Kaetlyn gathers the papers, laptops, and other knick-knacks left on the coffee table, transferring it all to hold under one arm so she can high-five Eliza on her way out, and close the door behind her. 

And just like that she’s no longer Tessa Virtue MP, she’s just Tess. She hugs Eliza a little tighter. 

Scott takes the bags from her desk to the coffee table before turning around and quickly taking the two steps it takes to stand in front of Tessa, smiling softly as he places his hands on her hips and pulls her towards him, but careful not to disturb the lump that is their daughter burrowed against her mother. 

Neither of them waste anymore time. He’s leaning down and she’s twisting her body slightly to her side to avoid getting Eliza any more squished than she’ll inevitably be, and Tessa’s tilting her head back in anticipation. And just like that his mouth is on hers and they’re both trying to contain their smiles. His lips are warm and soft, and when his tongue sweeps across her bottom lip, into her mouth, against her tongue, Tessa vaguely registers that he tastes like caramel candies--she makes a mental note to remember to ask him later to share. 

He moans into her mouth and she can’t help but do the same. It’s been so long since she last kissed him--at least six hours--it’s a travesty when they’re just so good at it. He moves his left hand up to cradle the back of her neck, and they keep kissing, slowly, firmly, hungrily. That is, until Eliza pops her head out of her hiding place in the crook of her mother’s neck, probably having gotten too warm between her parents, knocking into Tessa’s chin and separating them. 

Tessa emits a breathless giggle, shifting the toddler to sit propped on her hip. The baby starts to play with Tessa’s hair. 

Scott runs his hand through his hair, looking a little bit wrecked.  _ Good _ , Tessa thinks with a smirk. So she reaches out and pulls him down for one, two, three quick pecks on his lips until he’s smiling against her mouth. When they separate, he utters a simple, breathless, “Hi,” and beams at her, his nose scrunching up and the lines beside his eyes growing more prominent. 

“Hi,” Tessa returns, “what’s for lunch?” 

He pouts in response and pinches her side, making Tessa gasp out a giggle and twist away from him. He lets her go with a quick pat on her bottom, turning to start taking Tupperware out of the cooler bag. 

Her gaze lingers on his arms for a moment, noting the prominent veins that his rolled sleeves highlight, licking her lips absentmindedly, before turning to her daughter whose interests now lie with Tessa’s dangling gold earrings. 

Now that Eliza has pulled herself back from her neck, Tessa finally notices the toddler’s outfit. Scott had put a purple bow in her hair. A blue dress that makes her eyes look more blue-grey than their usual green is under a white bomber jacket with violet and blue flowers printed on it. Her legs, now swinging and lighting hitting the back of Tessa’s thigh, are covered by white tights, and her feet adorned by sparkly, gold flats.

“Hey, pumpkin,” Tessa brightens, “we match!” 

Eliza’s head whips up to look at Tessa curiously, “Match,” she repeats, although it sounds more like a question. 

“Mommy looks like you,” Tessa amends. “See, I have purple flowers,” she points to one on her dress, “and you have purple flowers,” she points to one on the baby’s jacket. “And my shoes are sparkly,” Tessa points down to her feet, causing Eliza to swing herself forward to see for herself that Tessa has to widen her stance, “and you have sparkly shoes too!” She wiggles her daughter’s foot. 

Her baby’s eyes widen and her mouth forms an  _ Oh " _ Match!” she says now more assuredly. 

“Should we get Daddy to take a picture?” 

“Yeah!” 

They both look over to Scott, but he’s focused on setting up plates. “How about some selfies for now?” Tessa suggests. Eliza nods enthusiastically. “And then we’ll send them to Nana and Aunt Jo. They’re going to think you’re so cute!” 

“Yeah,” Eliza agrees again. Scott chuckles a couple of feet away. 

One impromptu photoshoot later, wherein Scott does come in to snap a few shots on both his and Tessa’s phones, getting just the right angles, as Tessa sits herself down on the floor close to the coffee table with Eliza in her lap, she asks her daughter, “Were you good for Daddy this morning? Did you listen to his instructions?” 

The girl nods her head sagely, “Good girl, Mommy,” she says, adding for good measure, and reaching across to pat her father’s leg while smiling sweetly. 

Tessa turns to Scott with a raised brow. 

Scott throws her a wink as he pours her a glass of water.

“Oh yeah? What did you do today?” Tessa looks down to ask the girl.

Eliza twists around in her seat on Tessa’s lap, moving to her knees to face her mom to be able to hold her cheeks and pull her down to focus on her. And then she begins to babble. About dancing with Daddy, about strawberries in her breakfast, about the sky that is blue, how Nana said hello on the phone. 

Some words are still only approximations, most are still unintelligible, but her vocabulary is undeniably extensive and her gestures and expression fills in the blanks. That’s just what happens by osmosis, spending your days with Scott Moir, always chatty, always expressive. 

The baby starts to say something about lunch and helping, so Tessa takes a guess and exaggerates a gasp, asking, “Did you help make our lunch today?” Eliza nods and beams proudly. “It looks so yummy,” Tessa says as she peppers the toddler’s cheek with kisses. And she’s not lying. On the table is corn on the cob, albeit broken into fourths to make it easier for little hands to hold, and on their plates are a pop of colours, ziti with basil and zucchini and some sort of squash, glossy with olive oil and browned garlic. Scott’s even brought a wedge of parmesan and a microplane grater. 

She was promised pie before she left home that morning, but Scott probably has it hidden away in the bag still to keep Eliza from wanting to skip to dessert. Or at least he better have.

“I can’t wait to try it. I’m sure you worked so hard on it,” she squeezes her baby close. 

“Oh, yes she did,” Scott adds indulgently. “Tell Mommy what you made for her,” Scott prompts their daughter, “before we made lunch.”

Realisation dawns on their daughter’s face. “Daddy where?” she demands, craning her neck to look over at her dad.

Scott reaches for Eliza’s bag, unzipping it and reaching inside to bring out a rolled up sheet of paper with paint seeped around the edges. Eliza’s turned around to reach out for it and Tessa can feel her buzzing with excitement. When Scott unrolls the sheet and hands it to their baby opened up, Eliza pipes up, “Thanks!” 

And then their daughter bounces down on her way to sit on Tessa’s lap again, and Tessa’s left looking over Eliza’s shoulder to see the toddler’s usual swirling scribbles and heavy dashes in yellow, blue, and green paint.

“Wow,” Tessa starts, “I love how you used your colours,” she kisses the top of Eliza’s head, “it’s so bright and cheerful!” Though Tessa’s not so sure what she’s looking at. Eliza’s art is always a Rorschach test. She can see there’s been an attempt to keep the three colours distinct and separated from each other, but they couldn’t help blend on the edges where the new colour begins. Perhaps three mountains, Tessa wonders. “Tell me what you were going for,” she concedes. 

Eliza giggles. Then she points to the yellow figure on the left and says, “Daddy,” dragging her finger to the blue blob in the middle, “baby,” and finally to the green swirls, “Mommy!” 

Eliza looks up to her mom, grinning, expectant.

Tessa has been presented with so much artwork by their daughter over her yet still short two years of life. A lot of them, Tessa will guilty admit, hadn't quite been so good to make it into a frame. But her heart still swells and her whole being softens and Tessa has to release a contented little sigh because how did they manage to make such a darling little person? 

Tessa looks to Scott and she reads the same thoughts from his expression, eyes wide and kind. 

“Oh, baby, thank you so much! I love it!” and she means it sincerely, hugging Eliza close. “Is that for me to keep or are you only showing?” 

“For Mommy!” delivered in a tone that says  _ ‘Obviously!’ _

So she takes the painting, making a show of admiring with a sufficient amount of  _ oohing  _ and  _ aahing _ as her daughter looks on proudly. 

She doesn’t know what she’ll do with it yet, but framing it and putting it on her bookshelf isn’t not an option she’s mulling. For now, it’s placed gently on the couch behind them, to be moved to her desk drawer later when they’ve finished eating. 

Her attention passed, Eliza moves from her perch on Tessa’s lap to kneel closer to the table, her eyes on the corn. Tessa calls her back to take her jacket off, to save it from the inevitable mess. Once Scott tells them to dig in, their daughter turns back around and her hand snaps up to reach for a cob, bringing it up to her mouth and eating with gusto. 

Both Tessa and Scott laugh. They’ve probably kept their daughter from her lunch for too long. 

As Scott grates parmesan over her plate, watching Eliza throws Tessa back to the days of her second trimester, sending Scott to the nearest open farmers’ market for ears of sweet corn to satisfy her cravings. Look at how far they’ve come: with a toddler who knows what she wants, who knows how to use a fork and feed herself. It makes her heart flutter. 

Tessa rests her hand on Scott’s thigh just for something to direct her affection towards. Scott leans over to kiss her temple. 

“How did the change of plans go over with Marie and Patch?” he asks and turns his body to face her after a bite of food. 

So she tells him about her morning, the ugly stress, the contempt she felt at being treated like a novice, her interpretation of her conflict with Patch and Marie in their new relationship. And he listens attentively and validates her at the appropriate intervals. 

By the time Tessa’s finished recalling the morning’s rocky start, Eliza’s finished off two servings of corn, kernels stuck to her chubby cheeks and hands damp with its juices. She hands the messy husks back to Scott, who puts them in an empty Tupperware container. Tessa wipes their girl’s face and hands with the cloth Scott passes her. 

Their daughter then sets her sights on Tessa’s plate, “Yum,” she directs at her mom. 

Tessa chuckles. “Do you want me to fix you a plate?” 

Eliza shakes her head no, “Share?” she pleads.

At that Tessa lets out a honking laugh, throwing her head back. Eliza smiles in response, pleased to make her mom happy. “Okay, kiddo,” they  _ have  _ been drilling the need for sharing, “we can share,” she acquiesces. 

Scott rummages in the bag for Eliza’s fork. 

Once their daughter is content at feeding herself, Scott prompts Tessa to continue. 

“Chiddy’s the frontrunner for deputy leader,” Tessa reveals as she spears her pasta and chases her fork around a piece of zucchini. “The vote will be on Monday but I’m pretty sure he’ll win. The party president really liked the youthfulness of our strategy and there are so few MP’s in the party who are under forty.” 

Scott’s eyebrows pinch together. “They don’t think an older career politician can do a better job at legitimising you?” 

A split second passes before his eyes widen, realising his mistake. He swallows before he starts to choke, and he shakes his head and waves his hands in a placating gesture, “I just mean--” 

Tessa cuts him off by placing her hand over his mouth, muffling his apologies. 

Sometimes his mouth gets ahead of him, outrunning his brain’s ability to phrase his thoughts as kindly as Alma raised him to. If it had come from anybody else, Tessa might have been offended. 

“No, I know you don’t mean it like that. People just came to agree that we needed something to set us apart from everyone else.” She removes her hand from his mouth, and leans over to kiss him softly, stroking his upper thigh, trying to convey that there’s been no harm done. She kisses him until he's smiling again against her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he still says. “But you got them all to agree with you, finally! That’s good news!” 

Good news, yes, but the people who had readily agreed were fewer than the people who had needed to be persuaded to reluctantly agree, so she’s still essentially walking the knife’s edge. Tessa keeps eating, working around Eliza. 

A moment passes until Scott asks, “Meryl and Charlie are just around forty though. Will that affect your messaging in any way?”

“A little, but Meryl and Charlie act like middle aged white men anyways, so we’ll have a better chance,” she shrugs.

Breathless laughter bursts its way unannounced out of Scott, startling the baby for a moment, making her drop the fork halfway to her mouth, thankfully down onto the plate. “Daddy!” the girl accuses, frowning. “Virtch!” Scott gasps as he clutches a hand to his heart. Tessa beams. 

While Scott composes himself and drinks half of his glass of water, Tessa cleans the sauce off the handle of Eliza’s fork before handing it back to her. By the time Scott’s clearing his throat and settled to keep eating, Tessa’s had enough of talking about work, so she fills him in on Hill gossip instead. 

By the time that Eliza puts her fork down and has guzzled enough water from her sippy cup that her mother deems satisfactory, she plops herself down onto Tessa’s lap and declares, “Finished,” patting her belly contentedly. 

“Finished? I guess the pie will just be for me and Mommy then,” Scott teases, reaching into the cooler bag and producing a small pie dish. 

At that, Eliza starts to chant for dessert. Tessa joins in, not so playfully. 

Once everyone has a slice in front of them, and both Tessa and Eliza have dug in and made appreciative noises, Scott brings up London. 

“Kate asked if we wanted her to swing by and air out the house in London and get some groceries for when we go down for the relaunch. But I thought the optics might look better if we went to stay with your mom, like, we’re having a weekend at grandma’s kind of thing. I just think--remember when people found out Charlie had a third house in New York?” 

Tessa nods, licking cream off her fork as she remembers. It was definitely bad. The deputy prime minister’s wife posted photos of a weekend retreat in the Empire State while her husband was trying to cut housing allowances. The Union Party’s approval rating went down by eighteen points.

“I said I’d get back to her. What do you think?” Scott finishes. 

“I think you’re smart,” she nods, “I’ll handle it. I’ll call mom later.” 

Scott nods and looks down to try and hide his bashful smile at the compliment. Naturally she laughs at him and moves to shove a forkful of pie into his mouth.

Too soon it’s five-to-one, and Tessa walks Eliza over to sit on her desk so she can clean her up, and so that Scott can pack up and wipe down the table without any accidents. 

“T,” Scott calls. 

She hums in acknowledgement, too busy trying to wipe around Eliza’s mouth and neck, her hands and up her arms, as the toddler protests and tries to squirm away. Once Tessa’s satisfied, she picks up their daughter and props her up on her hip. Then she turns to Scott, just putting the used wipes away in the bin. 

He taps on the two Tupperware containers he left on the table before making his way to her with Eliza’s jacket, “Your dinner,” he explains, “if you have to stay a bit longer.” 

She softens and sighs. He takes care of her so well. What else can she do but pull him in and kiss him. That only lasts until the baby gets impatient and pats them both on their cheeks to separate them. 

The knock on the door signals the end of their time.

Scott kisses her forehead as he grazes his hand down her arm to hold her hand. “We’ll see you at home,” he smiles for her benefit. 

She sighs, “I’ll see you at home.” She gives him a small smile before calling, “Come in!” to whoever is behind the door. Scott moves to take their daughter, and the girl goes with little protest, not yet realising it’s time to say goodbye. 

Kaetlyn steps through the door, followed by Marie, then Patch. 

When they realise that Scott’s still there, Patch declares, “Scott, you should stay,” and proceeds to take the bags Scott carries to put them back on Tessa’s desk. Tessa’s slightly confused. 

“Umm,” Scott replies, uncertain. “I have to get Eliza home for her nap.” 

“It won’t take long,” Patrice insists.

Apparently they’ve come up with a new plan during their lunch break. 

Scott looks to Tessa, deferring to her. She pauses before nodding. It will be better for her relationship with Marie and Patch if Scott is there to restrain her reaction to any other undermining plan they might suggest. 

They all move back to the coffee table and the Chesterfield where Kaetlyn is already poised to take notes, while Tessa resumes her seat on her desk chair. Eliza slides off Scott’s lap to walk across the rug to climb onto Tessa’s lap. She has to smile, helping the baby settle her back against Tessa’s front. The toddler takes the change in plans in stride, probably pleased she doesn’t have to leave her mother yet for a nap.

Kaetlyn, always helpful, passes Tessa a legal pad. She smiles in thanks. She passes it onto Eliza, who looks up at her and makes a squeezing gesture with her right hand. Tessa reaches under the sleeve of her dress for the pen hanging on the strap of her bra, uncapping it and handing it to her daughter. 

“Did you know that in the hours following your announcement, the second most Googled question was ‘Tessa Virtue's husband’,” Marie begins. 

Tessa hesitates, but she bites, “What was the first?”

“Who is Tessa Virtue,” Patch quips. 

Tessa groans. She knows where this is going. “I’m not going to sell my relationship with Scott.” It’s definitely tempting, it’s easy bait. People have always been curious, even more so since they’ve had a baby. But she frowns, “That’s one step away from selling out our daughter.” 

All the adults glance to Eliza, who's begun to quietly talk to herself, and settled in clutching the pad of yellow paper with her left hand and scribbling with Tessa’s good fountain pen with her right.

“Tessa,” Patrice argues, recalling everyone’s attention, “you don’t want attack ads or antagonism with the other parties. Your options are limited. You and Scott are good at fluff pieces. So grasp it.” 

The thing is, she  _ knows _ they’re good. They used that very same strategy when she was running for MP, but that was  _ before _ . Now, camera phones are everywhere and Twitter and Instagram are open for anyone and everyone, from creeps to fanatics, to share photographs of their daughter. Tessa gnaws on her bottom lip. 

Marie tries again, “We’ll keep Eliza out of it and focus on just you and Scott. We promise,” she elbows Patrice, who nods along. “Would you be open to that?” 

Tessa looks to Scott, seated directly in front of her on the sofa next to Patch.  _ Are we bad parents?  _ she asks him with her eyes. His eyes flicker, calculating as though this problem was a lift or a step sequence or a pattern he knows he can make work. She worries. He softens his gaze. 

She blinks, allows him his mind. Scott turns to face Marie and makes the executive decision, “I’m open to doing whatever you need me to for Tess to win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are elections happening everywhere, the most obvious one in Canada. May you consider voting for the people who will address the consequences of colonisation and institutional racism. Your vote matters.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VM might have retired today but the friendships we made because of them will keep going. I think that's the best consolation prize anyone anywhere feeling any disappointment can ever get. So message that mutual you feel like you vibe with and find your soulmate too. 
> 
> To Maria, my last brain cell, I just love you so much. 
> 
> If Tessa and Scott taught us anything, gave us anything, it's love in every form imaginable.

**Thirty-four days until the election**

**(9:24 AM)**

Tessa stands with her head slightly tilted back as Matthew touches up the colour on her lips. She’d made the edges feather while enjoying a doughnut as she and Kaetlyn stood waiting behind the umbrellas, overseeing the line of sitting party MP's and hopefuls get their photos taken by Nikki. When Matthew finishes, she thanks him with a smile and a hand on his elbow. 

Kaetlyn remains at her side, reading aloud headlines and summaries from her tablet. Climate change protests, a car crash killing two, the price per barrel of oil, a new internet meme, the retirement of Olympic medallists, new cancer drugs that the state doesn’t subsidise, and on and on and on as Tessa does her best to take it all in while also making mental notes of what the candidates she watches can contribute to the campaign. 

She’d been in the studio, along with Kaetlyn, since seven, greeting the photographer and her crew by name, helping them set up this nondescript studio warehouse in downtown Ottawa to re-shoot everyone’s portraits to go on ads and signs and whatever other campaign material Marie and Jeff come up with. Of course, neither she nor Kaetlyn were qualified to handle any of the equipment without fear of damaging something and derailing everything. Not to appear like they weren’t team players as Nikki’s crew set up the white backdrop, Tessa and Kaetlyn had set up the table by the window overlooking the river with the mini coffee machine Tessa brought from home and the two-dozen gourmet doughnuts she had Kaetlyn pick up on the way. It had to do until Marie arrived with the actual catering. 

Whenever she’d sensed a break in the crew’s work to insert herself without seriously bothering anyone, she’d presented each member of the five-person team with a cup of espresso, a doughnut on a napkin, and a disarming smile. She made sure to make each conversation--however brief the time it took for them to down their coffee and devour their sweet treat--her undivided attention and wide eyed interest for small talk about their families, their passion for their work, and their aspirations, always ending each interaction with a heartfelt thanks for sacrificing their Sunday to do the job.

This team had been carefully chosen by Tessa and Marie for their ability to bring out from their subjects some cheek, a hint of smoulder; less rigidity, more personality. It’s a lot to ask from a single photograph, but for better or worse, politics is all about projecting a personality. 

Having a smile that showed enough teeth, a small squint in the eyes that can pull the right amount of lines to suggest good humour, maturity, reliability; eyes that were alive, friendly, humbled; having a stance, a posture, a gesture that commands attention and authority. And then dropping the right soundbites that will get people to project the personalities and views they want to see in their candidates and leaders, regardless of facts and prior evidence. 

Tessa thinks it’s a dirty business, has studied history and witnessed a line of men and women ascend to high offices as nationalists, supremacists, imbeciles in the truest sense, based on the power of imagery and media manipulation alone. But that’s the nature of the game, one which she’s gambling on to turn the polls in her favour. Hopefully in this one thing the ends will justify the means. 

She’s watching the flurry in front of her as Carolina tilt her head just so, turning to her left to peek over her shoulder into the camera as Nikki instructs her. Tessa thinks it’s going well so far, if Jeff and Marie’s nodding at each other is anything to go by as they sit behind the monitor scrutinising every photograph. 

Soon it’ll be her turn to pose. She was supposed to be the first in line and to leave right after to meet Patch and Eric on her street for filming, leaving Marie to oversee the project as the party’s candidates trickle in throughout the day. She trusts Marie and Jeff to execute, of course, but not showing her face, not thanking anyone for taking the time to fly into Ottawa and break from their own plans seemed wrong. Even if they were all required to come. So she stayed, calling ahead to Patch to get the crew there to start the scene blocks that didn’t require her presence. 

She’s been the one receiving the candidates as they leave the backdrop and flashing lights, soothing their concerns and offering advice about their ridings. But even then, people have not been as wary as the party membership had been. In fact, Javi, Anna, and Maxim had, in succession, gushed their excitement to her about the new direction the party is taking. The caucus had met last night to confirm the items on the new manifesto, and the minutes sent out to the rest of the party. 

She had directed a smirk at Kaetlyn every time someone voiced their trust in her, her small triumphs against Marie and Patch and the sceptics in party HQ. The trust is still untested, but it’s worth celebrating nonetheless. 

As Kaetlyn finishes listing out the changes in the Forex, Carolina hops up off her seat to shake the photographer’s hand, and then Nikki’s assistant’s. Tessa smiles as Carolina goes straight to her, opening her arms out which her friend mimics, and they both let out a laugh when they make impact and fold each other into a hug. They haven’t seen each other since the last sitting in June. Far too long Tessa thinks. 

They have to break up their greetings because Tessa’s being called up by Marie to take her place in front of the lights, so they exchange a firm hug, swaying side to side to prolong it as much as they can. Carolina has to fly back to St. John’s, but they’ll see each other again soon. 

When Tessa moves to sit on the stool Carolina vacated, Marie strides up to her to brush invisible lint off of her shoulder and to smooth her hair behind her left ear. Then she says with an exuberance that Tessa remembers from years before, before the Party’s fall from grace, “We’re doing really good this morning, Tessa. The photos, the concept, they’re just _gorgeous_ to look at. _Scrumptious_.” 

Tessa has to shoot Kaetlyn another smirk. Her assistant, her tablet now tucked under her armpit, gives her a cheeky grin and two thumbs up from behind the monitor. 

Once Marie moves back to her seat, Matthew steps up to Tessa’s side to arrange a section of her loose waves into an artistic cascade down her right shoulder. Julia, the stylist, tries to pull up the neckline of Tessa’s dress. At this, Tessa has to release a chuckle. It’s futile, there’s no more fabric to pull up. 

She and Jordan, via video call last night, had decided that a blazer would make her look too desperate to imitate maturity. The dress they had settled on was a black, crepe silk wrap dress with printed flowers in burgundy and purple, with a crossover V-neck, an asymmetric handkerchief hem, and _pockets_. 

When Marie first saw her that morning she had greeted Tessa with a once-over and, “Wow!” but had left it at that. Jeff had been a little more eloquent, nodding as he said, “It suits you.”

The memo they sent to all MP’s and candidates coming in that day was to dress like they were someone worldly but still homely enough to be invited over for tea without people hesitating about the state of their houses. 

The Rules of Order and Decorum only stipulate that Members dress in contemporary business attire. Nothing about necklines for women. 

It’s a little risqué for a politician, she will admit. But her first press conference as party leader had been conducted in a black coat shaped dress with a neckline so much lower than tradition dictates, and with a hemline not at all conservative. Though, any opposition to her get-up had been drowned by the upswing of their polling numbers.

If anyone raises objection, inside or outside her party, she’s ready with a few choice words. In fact, she _wants_ the opposing parties, even journalists, to bring it up just so she can school them publicly and decisively. 

Other than that, Tessa is a big fan of the dress. 

She had taken it as a good sign when, after putting the baby down for bed, Scott had asked her to put the dress back on. With a raised eyebrow she complied, walking into their walk-in closet to retrieve it and put it back on, deliberately forgoing her underwear, throwing them into the clothes hamper instead for Scott to launder the next day. She’d made her way back to their room, her eyebrow raised in challenge. 

Scott had stripped down to his boxers and a white t-shirt, his eyes equally as fiery as hers. He’d taken one step towards her before he paused, considered his options, decided to pull his shirt off and on the floor. He continued his saunter into her space, growling when he finally got to place his hands on her waist, down the curve and firmly against her hips, soothing his hands against the silk of her dress, until finally his hands, warm and sure and reverent, settled on her ass to pull her close to his body to feel his hardening cock, giving her a firm squeeze, which earned a low and breathy groan from her and a hum from him. 

He had untied the material holding her dress together, slipped it off her shoulders, gentle and slow, exerting enough self control to drape it over her reading chair to prevent creases, ready to wear for her re-shoot. 

Sex sells, after all. Might as well lean into it. 

* * *

**(11:18AM)**

The driver parks the car in her driveway, makes his way around to her door to help her and Kaetlyn step out. 

When Tessa looks around her street after thanking their driver, her eyes bypass the production to her right where Eric is overseeing establishing shots of the tree lined street, leaves just starting to turn yellow and orange, of volunteers on their way to go door knocking. She looks to her neighbours’ homes to determine how much disruption the activity is causing to ascertain who she and Scott will need to visit first later that evening when they make their rounds thanking their neighbours for their patience. 

Scott had gone door to door yesterday afternoon with a basket of banana muffins and Eliza in tow to remind their neighbours about the campaign video to be set on their street. He’d reported, as he warmed her dinner, that it was only Mr and Mrs Mitchell four houses down the row who voiced objections for their plan. (Union Party voters, they both rolled their eyes). 

The Henderson children and their mother, in the house directly across the street, are pressed up to their window, curious. Usually, their Sundays are spent running around their front and back yards. Tessa hopes they’re finding watching the production just as exciting. She directs a small wave and sheepish smile to them once they catch sight of her, which they return. 

There are the regular joggers who pass through, who only spare a glance in their direction before continuing on their route. 

The Browns’ home, right of the Hendersons, is shut up, their car gone, presumably taking their children away on a trip to avoid today’s hubbub. 

“Tess?” 

She startles, turns to Kaetlyn. Her assistant grasps her arm to turn her around to face her own home. And there is Eliza and Scott in the sitting room window, the toddler slapping her hands on the glass as she excitedly mouths (yells) ‘ _Mommy!_ ’’ on repeat while her husband tries to keep their daughter from running through the glass. 

Tessa shares a mirthful laugh with Kaetlyn. She blows kisses, but points to where she spotted Patch with his arms crossed and indicates _one minute_ , before walking quickly to her campaign manager to get the show going. 

Patch turns to face her once he recognises the clicking of her heeled shoes. 

“Tessa, Kaetlyn,” he nods at both of them, “how was the photo shoot?” 

“Very well,” Tessa replies. “Marie and Jeff are pleased; everyone being photographed likes the photographer and how their portraits turned out. And Elvis came to say that he couldn't have come up with anything close to our strategy now.” Tessa preens at the last bit. It’s like being a child in school again, coming home to show her parents a good report card. 

Patch arches an eyebrow, “Oh? That’s a relief. We have two more shots that you aren’t in left to do,” he begins his list, as no nonsense as ever. “Three of your neighbours have volunteered to be filmed, so Kaetlyn,” he turns to her assistant, “will you get them to sign consent forms? They’re on number 32, 38, and 29 **,** ” points in their direction. 

“Sure, I’m on it,” Kaetlyn replies with a smile, moving to step around Patch, dodging Eric’s small crew as they work, lugging her heavy satchel with her. 

Tessa and Patch watch her go in silence. It’s not until Kaetlyn’s knocking on the Lavoie’s front door that Patch speaks up again. “Did you hear?” he asks, “The fossil fuel lobby are definitely, officially, going to back the Union Party.” He chuckles, but it's pained. 

“Those _fuckers_ ,” she seethes.

A rolodex of emotions flickers across her face. Spite, dread, annoyance, hopelessness. But the strongest one of all, making her blood boil, is righteous anger. 

And yet she has to settle on impassive. Be pragmatic. “How do you know? Who told you?”

“An old friend gave me a heads up. They said they heard you were going to be harsh against gas and oil, so they’re putting all their money behind Meryl. Get ready for their propaganda, because they hate you right now. If people weren’t so stupid we’d stand a chance, but no one’s capable of critical thinking anymore. It’s all that social media,” Patch shakes his head, “turned everyone’s brains into passive mush,” he finishes bitterly. If Patch was a man who smoked, this would be the time he’d pull a final drag before flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it with the heel of his loafers with more vigour than required. 

“Fuck,” she says quietly, rubbing her sweating palms down the sides of her dress. 

They _are_ going to be extremely harsh on gas and oil and they knew it was inevitable that the lobbies would move against her. But lobbies like that, usually keep their support implicit, through donations, dealings behind closed doors. If the biggest, most influential lobby in the country are against them, then it won’t be too long before every major business and their subsidiaries start campaigning against her and her party. 

“That’s okay,” Tessa tries, hoping to tamp down the sudden cold flush of anxiety in her veins. Patrice shoots her a dubious look. “No, really, it’s okay.” If she says it enough it might become true. “We can use it against them. Show people oil spills, dirty water, dead sea animals. It can work,” she tries to sound sure. 

Patch sighs. “If it hasn’t worked for Greenpeace, what makes you think the same thing can work for us?” 

She knows that, but she can’t solve it all on a footpath. “Well, we’ve just sent copies of our new manifesto all over the place, ready to be distributed tomorrow morning. We can’t just drop everything. We’ll adjust later if we have to, but we’re not dropping the climate issue,” she adds hastily. 

His eyes dart across her face. “Maybe we could educate the public,” he sing-songs. “Maybe we can make them _think_ ,” he rolls his eyes. 

He means it mockingly, she knows, but what else do they have? They could make information less asymmetrical, get environmentalists to simplify the climate problem so that she and her MP's can explain in layman's terms to their audiences? There's always a better chance of winning people over if they can agree on facts.

Climate change policy can be their pièce de résistance. Link it up with issues like economic productivity, education, child poverty. It could work. Though, they’d have to caution not to sound like conspiracy theorists. 

Then--suddenly it hits her. 

“If gas and oil are siding with the Union, that means they think we’re a threat. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? They must know that people are sick of their industry’s shit and know we have the goods to turn people against them.”

Patch frowns. “That’s an overly optimistic assessment of the situation, even for you.” But then he thinks it over, his own mind beginning to kick into gear. "We’re just polling twenty percent though.”

Tessa nods her head vigorously, her eyes sparkling. 

Patch, thinking aloud, “The Union Party wants to keep digging up and burning everything. Donohue doesn’t even have a climate change policy. Gilles’ is weak. We’re on the extreme opposite of everyone else.” He rubs his hand against his chin. “You’re white enough and pretty enough to sell it and be taken seriously. They can’t even hold your gender against you without it backfiring on Meryl.” Patch levels her with a bewildered look, “You might be right,” he cautions. 

“We can add academics, students, First Nations groups into our targeted voter base. And there are so many workers’ unions we can tap into,” she’s excited now. “And children! If we can get them excited about tackling the climate issue, we can get their parents too.” 

Patrice laughs. “You have far too much faith in democracy.” He gets a faraway look on his face, “You know, in New Zealand’s 2017 election, their youth voter turnout was something like seventy percent. That was an increase of about six-and-a-half percent because their prime minister now was good at taking selfies with people. Canada has only ever managed fifty-seven percent for that age group.” Patch smiles at her, genuine, daresay with a little hope in his eyes. “We can do something with that. Social media things, you know. You’re charismatic and young, easy to like.” 

“We can do social media things with that,” Tessa agrees. “But our problem is still translating digital engagement into actual political engagement.” She frowns. She’s watched many campaigns attain that high only to lose it in the polls. 

Patrice waves his hand dismissively, a smile breaking through, “Marie will come up with something.” 

Somehow, Tessa finds it hard to believe. All before them (or the ‘them’ using it to disseminate truth) have failed simply because social media for use in electoral campaigning is a short, unwritten history. Nothing like democracy and its millennia of records of the consequences of every political action and inaction. 

Although, if Tessa can trust in one thing in her current situation, it's in Patch's trust in his wife. And that will just have to do. 

Tessa breathes out a sigh, which turns into a giggle. For the first time since she sat down with Marie and Patch, she feels like they’re finally on the same page--or rather, Patrice has finally caught up to the same chapter. Although, she’s already made it to the end while he’s just begun its opening paragraph. 

They need to be realistic, she knows, and with that comes a pessimism to guard them from the devastation of the highs and lows (of which there are far more lows) of public office. Patrice’s bitterness against the fickleness of the public isn’t misplaced. People _are_ very stupid, too easily swept up by charming smiles, flashing lights, and sure rhetoric, promises lacking evidence. There’s no place for optimism and hope in people to think for themselves. Not when everything surrounding them is saturated with propaganda, within systems that never teach them to recognise it. 

But as much as she likes to be reasoned and clinical, she’s an even bigger believer in justice. Maybe democracy has to face the brink of catastrophe, narrowly miss extinction, before it realises its stupidity and _acts_. But they really do have an opportunity here to be the catalyst for that realisation. 

“Okay,” Patch plows on, not allowing her to stand and ponder any longer. “Eric needs something to work with by three o’clock. You need to get dressed and get Scott out here.”

Tessa directs a beatific smile at Patch, places her hand on his shoulder, lingering a moment to mark the moment they just had even if he won’t. “Will you send Kaetlyn inside when she comes back?” 

Patch nods. She turns around, making her way to her front door. 

* * *

**(11:30 AM)** ****

When she walks into their front hall and announces her presence, she expects her usual welcoming party. The pitter patter of small feet making their way as quickly to her as possible, followed by small arms wrapping themselves around her knees, an excited ‘ _Mommy! Up, up_ ,’’ Scott stepping aside to allow their daughter her turn but still impatient for his own hug and kiss. 

Instead, she hears hiccuping cries beginning to peter off, accompanied by Scott’s softened voice, soothing and hushing, trying to bribe their daughter to a complete stop with a game of bubbles. 

Tessa’s smile falls off her face. 

She steps out of her heels, leaving them there by the door, to inch her way into the sitting room, slowly as not to startle the baby. There she finds Scott sitting cross legged in front of the window she saw Eliza through ten minutes ago, rocking back and forth with their daughter sprawled against his front, Eliza’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck as she mumbles, her words indecipherable as she gasps out little sobs. Still, Scott murmurs his pacification. 

One would think something terrible had happened. 

Tessa knows better though--has seen it enough to know that it’s because of her. By now she knows that the crying she’s watching is the byproduct of an extroverted child, prone to melodrama when overtired or hungry, or in need of attention. Though, that knowledge doesn’t stop her stomach from twisting, from mentally berating herself that she should have known the baby would get upset after seeing her and being acknowledged, only for her mother to dismiss _home_ to choose her _work_. 

Scott spies her at the threshold, ushers her in with a single downward tilt of his chin. 

Tessa steps into the room. When she’s a metre from Eliza’s form she drops to a crawl. On her knees in front of her daughter, Tessa places her hand against Eliza’s warm back, just under Scott’s hand holding the baby to him. “Eliza?” Tessa says sweetly, even a little playfully, not betraying her own emotions so as not to upset their daughter any further. 

The girl’s head pops up from the crook of her father’s neck. Eliza’s eyes are watery, snot running down her nose. Tessa withdraws her hand to open her arms, “Come here,” she softly commands. 

The baby moves into Tessa’s arms with no hesitation, burrowing her face into her mother’s neck, her arms and legs wrapped around her. Tessa tries to ignore the dampness of tears and snot that her daughter presses into her neck. 

“She’s okay,” Scott assures her, “but she was upset you didn’t come in right away,” he breaks to her gently. 

Tessa purses her lips. She presses kisses against the side of her baby’s head, shushing her as she rocks them side to side. 

Tessa had consulted a child psychologist when she went back to the Hill full-time twelve weeks after giving birth on whether she was damaging her daughter’s emotional and psychological development if she left her in favour of twelve hour work days. She had been assured that with Scott staying home with the baby, with the right balance, they had nothing to worry about. 

She had studied attachment herself and knew the words to be true. But she had always been in awe of that wholesome innocence only small children possessed, completely unaware of pain, of grief, of evil. Until they’re disappointed by the adults in their life meant to love and protect them. 

What Tessa worries about is to be the reason her own daughter has to know rejection. 

Scott has repeatedly assured her that that isn’t the case. That Eliza is well adjusted, securely attached, resilient. 

Kate had reminded her that Tessa had turned out fine herself even with two full-time working parents. That is, at least until her injury that forced her out of ballet, and until her father messed up and dragged down the rest of the family for a time (despite their claims of his irrelevance). Tessa had kept her mouth shut when her mother told her this. 

On the off-chance that she’s alone with nothing pressing to occupy her thoughts, she’d been forced to wonder who she could have been without perfectionism, the body image issues, the anxiety, the consuming, exhausting need to please the people around her. She’s secretly convinced that once Eliza’s frontal lobe starts to develop, able to identify anger and inadequacy, their baby will need a lot of help. 

If Tessa has spent the last three years as an MP, and the last year as Shadow Minister, legislating mental health policies in anxious anticipation for it, then sue her.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Tessa murmurs into Eliza’s ear. “Mommy’s here now. I just have one more thing to do today and then I’m all yours,” she promises. 

It’s a lie, of course. She has so many things to do. Her emails, social media, checking in with Marie and Jeff, preparations for the relaunch, thank or placate her neighbours, studying up for her press appearances for tomorrow, look over the budget Kaitlyn sent, work on their Budget with Javi, liaise with Patch on the hundred other things on his list, kiss her husband somewhere in between. 

But those can be pushed until Eliza naps and sleeps. 

“Tissues?” she directs at Scott.

Scott pulls himself up, makes his way to the side table and back with a box. He hands her two tissues as he sits back down beside her. 

When Tessa pulls Eliza back her daughter doesn’t resist, so she places the tissues over the girl’s nose and commands, “Blow.” 

The baby complies, emitting a surprisingly loud trumpet like sound. 

Tessa smiles fondly as she pulls the tissue back to fold it in half again and wipe what’s left under Eliza’s nose. “Just like an elephant,” Tessa coos. 

Scott punctuates her observation with his own (poor, but well intentioned) imitation of the sound, grinning cheekily as he brings his arm up in front of his face to form a trunk.

It makes Eliza dive back into Tessa’s neck, but this time to hide her smile forming. 

Tessa husks out a small laugh, continues to rub her hand up and down Eliza’s back while cooing reassurances. Scott combs through the girl’s hair to fasten it back into its high ponytail.

“Kaetlyn’s coming to play with you while Mommy and Daddy go to work for a bit,” Tessa begins once Eliza starts cooing back. 

“Kaye?” the baby pulls back, interest piqued. Kaetlyn has been such a constant presence in Eliza’s life with all the baby’s days spent in Parliament, seeing each other almost every day that Tessa is in Ottawa, that she’s become something like a favourite aunt. 

(Kaetlyn has been Tessa’s assistant since her first day on the Hill. Recently graduated, Kaetlyn’s perspective on life was surprisingly poignant, had been burnt a few times, and yet she still possessed an idealism for tomorrows that convinced Tessa to hire her and mentor her when she can. 

As much as Tessa looks forward to watching her assistant accomplish great things as herself, Tessa dreads the day she moves on to bigger, better things.)

“Yeah, and Daddy made you some snacks to share, right Daddy?”

“I sure did!” Scott enthuses. “You can even have a tea party.”

Her husband is smart, Tessa muses. Tea parties with Eliza means donning faux flower crowns, sitting in too small chairs in her playroom, but at least require little more effort than munching on crustless peanut butter sandwiches, cubed peaches, and baby biscuits, washed down with apple juice or milk in plastic tea cups. 

Kaetlyn will probably have to dissuade Eliza from dressing up Paw de Chat against his will and forcefully share her food with, but other than that, the whole ceremony could take up to an hour. Kaetlyn can relax for a bit, find amusement in Eliza’s gibberish and overenthusiastic sharing.

Tessa gasps, “A tea party? You love tea parties, don’t you, baby?” 

Eliza’s head bobs as she nods. She stands up from her perch on Tessa’s lap to ask, “Cake? Please?” and then she pulls at the collar of Tessa’s coat. 

Scott crosses his arms and shakes his head--in defeat. 

Tessa really shouldn’t allow it, not before a proper lunch. But there are endorphins in cake (not in the chiffon cake in their pantry, not really). The baby needs it, Tessa reasons. “I think we can convince Daddy,” she winks. “You can share your cake with Kaetlyn,” Tessa allows. 

“Yum!” Eliza squeals. She squirms out of Tessa’s hold and makes a run for the kitchen, all signs of her meltdown gone. 

She and Scott watch her run off, neither of them making a move to follow. She assumes Scott closed the door to the kitchen, and when their daughter realises this herself she will predictably be diverted to her playroom where the cat, perched under the colouring table on a pillow he stole from Eliza’s nursery, will keep an eye on her. 

In a second, Scott is on his feet, offering her a hand up. She takes it. Upright, she’s able to take off her coat and drape it over the back of the sofa. It’s warm enough in the house. 

“Have you had a good morning so far?” Scott asks while he rights the curtains. 

Tessa hums, turning to face him and leaning against the back of the couch. “Much better than I thought it was going to be. Elvis was so impressed, I would think he’s a bit disappointed he didn’t think to update the design of our campaign material.”

“Hey, good job kiddo,” he smiles, sincere, then bends to pick up the tissue box and the discarded tissues on the floor, putting the former back on the side table, and the latter in his back pocket to dispose of later.

Tessa crosses her arms and shrugs nonchalantly, but her smirk gives away her pride. 

Scott makes his way to stand in front of her, and she tilts her head back. Sure enough, as he bends his head down, his hands migrate to her waist, and she uncrosses her arms to pull him in by the sides of his shirt. As his face nears hers she notices the smell of his aftershave--fresh like pines. She dodges his attempt to plant his lips on hers so she can settle them cheek to cheek and chest to chest for just a moment to breathe him in. He lets her, feeling their hearts beat against the other’s. Then she noses along his jaw, and he places a finger under her chin to tilt her face up, and then she’s pulling him in by his shirt again. She pulls him into a kiss, all toothy at first from smiling, and then wet and slow and warm and lingering. They kiss like this one, two, three times in succession until they’re both flushed and a little starry-eyed, perhaps a little too sweet for barely twelve in the afternoon. If Eliza had still been in the room, she’d have pulled them away from each other halfway through the first kiss. 

When they break apart he declares, “You taste like sugar.” 

So she tilts her head to the side and cups her face, wearing a cutesy little smile. 

He throws his head back as a bark of a laugh escapes him. See, her comedic timing is improving, she smirks. 

“Don’t make me laugh!” he accuses, trying to be stern. “I’m trying to ask if you ate anything other than doughnuts,” he says, hands on his hips, fighting his smile. 

She shrugs, “You know I didn’t. I was waiting for you,” she bats her lashes, looks him up and down. 

Scott is wearing a black polo shirt, the top two buttons undone, and a form fitting pair of black jeans. He’s going to be on camera, making a short cameo, so he’s styled his hair with just a little product, and his hair has curled with just the right amount of volume, a stray curl escaping to fall against his forehead. 

His arms--she wants to trace her fingers over the prominent veins on his hands, his forearms, and up to grip his biceps, large and defined as ever, to see if they’re just as solid and strong as she remembers them being last night. So she does because she can.

She licks her lips. She wouldn’t be opposed to eating _him_ for lunch. She tells him just as much.

His eyes flash, remembering. But he squints at her and crosses his arms, trying to look unimpressed. 

“I’ve been busy,” she defends, and moves to walk out of the room and into the hallway. 

“I know,” he replies gently, trailing behind her, “but you need more energy than what coffee and doughnuts can give you. How about a club sandwich for now?” 

She’s halfway up the stairs when her stomach grumbles at the thought of bacon and tomatoes, betraying her. “Can you add white wine to that order?” 

He cranes his neck around to find a wall clock. “It’s barely noon?” 

“The oil lobby are going to endorse Meryl,” she says by way of explanation. 

Scott almost trips over the last stair. “Motherfuckers,” he spits out.

“That’s what I said,” she pauses on the threshold of their bedroom door. “We’re going to handle it, don’t worry.” If _he_ gets anxious, she’ll be even more so. “So will you get me wine now?” 

He hums as he considers it, so she pouts and adds, “Please?” 

She knows she has him. He finds it hard to deny her anything, more so since Eliza’s birth.

“Sandwich first,” he settles. “And only a sip. You have to be on camera. So,” he wags his finger at her, “ _you_ get changed so we can get this show on the road. I’ll go make you a sandwich and check on your daughter. Make sure she isn’t drawing on the walls or something.” 

Tessa beckons him forward. He follows. She rises up on her toes to give him one more lingering kiss, her hands on his shoulders, trying to convey how much she adores him and his mother hen schtick.

When she falls back onto the soles of her feet, she pauses for a moment just to look at him. He gives her a boyish grin, his hazel eyes kind, the lines around his eyes creasing. Sometimes she wonders if he realises he keeps her alive--not just because he feeds her--but because he’s her home base, the most passionately caring person she knows, one of the only people in existence to make her put aside her work. 

That all-consuming work of public office, even more so now, the stress alone would have killed her years ago if it weren’t for him being her respite from her disappointments and frustrations of the world. 

Scott leans down to press a kiss on her temple. He gives her three quick slaps on her ass before pulling back, saying, “Hurry up,” and winks at her. 

She shoves him away with her elbow playfully, “Go check on your daughter.” 

He’s already stepping onto the stairs. “Yes, ma’am!” he calls back.

Tessa makes quick work of changing into the ensemble she laid out on the bed that morning. Black skinny jeans, a white camisole, over which a tailored pink blazer, and white sneakers. She moves to her dressing table to put on her grandmother’s pearl earrings and the matching bracelet. She wipes off her lipstick to be replaced after eating with a softer shade of pink. 

When she returns downstairs and walks into the kitchen, Kaetlyn is sitting on one of the stools on the island eating a club sandwich of her own. There’s a place set up beside her, a plate ready for Tessa.

She plops herself down beside Kaetlyn, startling the woman a little. She smiles through her bite, so Tessa makes quick work of her own sandwich. 

She’s four bites in when Scott walks in, hand in hand with Eliza. “The tea party is set up, ready for Kaye and the kiddo,” he announces. 

Kaetlyn cheers. Eliza copies as she lets go of Scott’s hand to run clumsily towards Kaetlyn’s chair, colliding with the young woman’s legs and then hugging them, raising her face and batting her eyes for Kaetlyn’s full view, then raising her arms up, a demand to be picked up. 

Kaetlyn’s chair makes a scraping sound against the hardwood floor, and she hops off of it to comply with the baby’s request. Based on the giggle the girl releases, Eliza is pleased. 

Tessa shakes her head. She can’t tell from whom the child gets her skills for manipulation. She catches Scott’s eye, and he gestures with his head to the door leading to the front hall. Tessa glances at the clock. He’s right, she thinks. Better get out while their daughter is distracted with a new playmate. 

Tessa slides off of her own seat, taking the plate and her unfinished sandwich with her. She sidles up to Kaetlyn and takes Eliza’s hand in her own, forcing the girl to pull back and look at her mother. “Listen to Kaetlyn, okay?” Tessa instructs. “Do what she tells you to do. Mommy and Daddy will be just outside if you need anything.”

“Oh-kay,” the girl answers. Tessa leans in, trying to give Kaetlyn as much space as possible, lavishes a rapid succession of little kisses against the apple of Eliza’s cheek, nuzzling the tip of her nose against her baby’s, only pulling back when Eliza does so so she can grasp Tessa’s cheeks and slobber a kiss on the side of her nose. 

Scott steps up too, placing his kiss on Eliza’s temple, taking a deep inhale of that baby smell. “Bye bye, baby,” Scott boops her nose, making everyone in the room smile.

“Bye-bye,” Eliza sings, waving her hand in her floppy manner, “bye-bye.”

Tessa places a reassuring hand on Kaetlyn’s shoulder, indicates she and Scott are to go. 

“I’ve got her,” Kaetlyn assures. Indeed, Eliza points to the door to the hallway, the way to her playroom. “You want to have a tea party now?” Kaetlyn coos, “Yeah?” 

“Yes!” Eliza returns, wiggling her body and kicking her legs, beginning a stream of conversation. 

The remaining third of Kaetlyn’s sandwich is left behind. 

As Tessa makes for the front hall with Scott’s hand on the small of her back, sandwich in hand, she asks, “Has Patch eaten?” 

“Yeah, he came in twice looking for food.” 

_Even he makes time to eat,_ is left unsaid. 

* * *

**_10:00 AM - 18 Sept 2019 (or thirty-two days until the election)_ **

**_Tessa Virtue_ **

_Leader of @citizenspartycanada_

_MP for London North Centre_

_A mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend_

[ _citizensparty.ca_ ](http://www.citizensparty.ca)

_Ottawa, Ontario_

_[x]_

_2 hours ago_

**_14,709 views_ **

**_tessavirtue_ ** _I’m so excited to share with you what we’ve been working on!_

_Part and parcel of our democracy are the conversations that we have with each other, sharing ideas, finding our common ground, and acting on the needs of our communities._

_Join me and volunteer for @citizenspartycanada because it’s our responsibility to keep our country safe, sustainable, and kind, for each other and for our children._

_We can change the world, and we’ll do it together._

_citizensparty.ca/volunteer_

_// Je suis tellement excitée de partager avec vous ce sur quoi nous avons travaillé!_

_Les conversations que nous avons les uns avec les autres, le partage d'idées, la recherche d'un terrain d'entente et la satisfaction des besoins de nos collectivités font partie intégrante de notre démocratie._

_Joignez-vous à moi et faites du bénévolat pour @citizenspartycanada parce que c'est notre responsabilité de garder notre pays sécuritaire, durable et aimable, pour les autres et pour nos enfants._

_Nous pouvons changer le monde, et nous le ferons ensemble._

_citizensparty.ca/bénévole_

_View all 211 comments_

**_jordanvirtue_ ** _Already signed up to help @javierfernandez’s campaign here in Toronto! I’m so proud of you Sam :-) <3 _

**_alma_moir_ ** _You can count on us to volunteer, Tess! And good acting work, Scott! Your dad and I were impressed, hahaha!_

 **_johndowntown_ ** _we don’t need your communism_

 **_shannon.2262_ ** _We were strolling past their house where they were filming when I saw Tessa, and I told my husband I just had to get a picture with our next prime minister. So I went up to her while they were setting up a new shot and asked for a picture, and Tessa agreed without missing a beat. She even took our selfie herself, and she was so kind and took her time to chat with us. Can’t wait to vote for you Tessa!_

 **_michellejane94_ ** _@angelatomtom Scott is only in this video for like 6 seconds but there was still so much sexual tension_

 **_angelatomtom_ ** _@michellejane94 it’s the EyEbRoW thing asdjfkajhdfakdjf. She told a story way back about how she met her husband while door knocking so ho you and I are volunteering to find ourselves our own scott moir_

 **_withthee_christine_ ** _Isn’t that her house? It’s so boujee?? I thought she was supposed to be We The People and all that? I thought she was going to be revolutionary and different. This is just more of the same._

* * *

**Thirty-one days until the election**

4:19 PM - 18 Sept 2019

 **PJ Kwong**  
@reportingpj  
1\. At Victoria Park, London Ont for @citizenspartycanada campaign relaunch. Weather is holding up, which may be a good omen for @tessavirtue  
.  
.

Replying to @reportingpj  
2\. This is Virtue’s chance to change the tone of their campaign so as to register with voters, because until Stojko’s resignation they have failed to resonate with people’s imaginations  
.  
.

Replying to @reportingpj  
3\. The party’s first female leader @katiagordeeva71 and Virtue’s old mentor @shaelynnbourne have been spotted near the stage.  
.  
.  
Replying to @reportingpj

4\. The energy here is palpable. Just spoke to a young woman who brought her family to witness what she calls “history”. They have high hopes. Virtue is the 3rd female leader of her party, but there has yet to be a female PM from @citizenspartycanada

.  
.

Replying to @reportingpj

5\. @tessavirtue has been leader for less than a week but her youth and charisma has excited old party supporters and reawakened their hopes for their party’s return to gov--at the very least as part of a left bloc minority gov

.  
.

Replying to @reportingpj

6\. Virtue has arrived. Supporters have begun to swarm towards her vehicle to greet her

* * *

**(4:34 PM)**

They’re trying to get through the throng of people as quickly as possible without appearing dismissive. 

She’s been in public office for so long that asking questions and questions and listening and sympathising is so ingrained in her that moving through and merely shaking hands, exchanging hellos, accepting compliments, and acknowledging unintelligible squeals while taking selfies feels truly odd. 

This speed dating version feels wrong. Don’t get her wrong, she's relieved so many people came. How embarrassing it would have been if only the few they were polling last week were the ones to turn up. But usually, if constituents were as enthusiastic to make contact with her as this crowd is now, it would be so they could demand answers from her and get her to take whatever they have to Parliament. Those always required a sit-down conversation. 

Even Scott, lagging behind her, isn’t doing any better. As per usual, he’s trying to flirt with every old granny he walks past. They’re so enamoured with him, she feels bad for reaching back and pulling on his hand to move him along and in stride with her. Once or twice she watched him pout after being pulled away from particularly adoring grandmas. She had to giggle. 

While she’s trying to refrain from engaging in conversations that will derail their 5 PM start, Tessa’s doing her utmost to keep her attention focused solely on whomever she’s shaking hands with in the moment, so that however brief their interaction, at least there will be an impression that they matter and that she cares. But the crowd is so large, so enthusiastic, so frenetic, pushing into each other to reach her--it's overwhelming and she can't help her mind from wandering momentarily every few minutes. 

This must be how rock stars feel, she thinks. 

Every few paces she’ll meet eager young women, half yelling at her to be heard over the crowd who will tell her they see her as an inspiration, their hope for their futures, an idol. She accepts their compliments with as much grace as she can. Her goal _is_ to engage with people like them and to do them justice, but their idolisation rubs her off the wrong way. She can see their PR strategy is working, which is what they wanted, but now she can’t stop the feeling of apprehension that has begin to course through her over the impossibility of ever living up to the pedestal they’ve put her on. But before she can develop on that train of thought, it's Scotts turn to pull her away and onto the next person on their journey to the Band Shell and backstage. 

She spies Shae-Lynn and Katia near the stage, conversing with Party officials that surround them. In front of cameras they’re going to hug after her speech to show people continuity. A pair of women whose life work it has been to make the lives of women and children better, passing on the baton to _her_. That image can’t not resonate with people. 

(Though, _that_ will only stoke the fires of idolatry. Some battles you cannot win.) 

They make it backstage with eleven minutes to spare, and they make a beeline for their parents, her siblings, and an extended number of Moirs who have congregated in one corner. Eliza had made her way to the venue with Kate and Jordan, but Eliza and Jordan are missing from the gathering, having broken off to chase each other in a game of tag in an opposite corner. Hopefully they haven’t disturbed anyone from their busy work. 

She and Scott break their handhold to go through and hug every person there. Tessa lingers in her mother’s arms, tucking her chin in to dig into Kate’s shoulder. Kate must notice the length of their hug because she murmurs, “You can do this, Tess,” and pulls her in tighter. Perhaps it’s the surrealness of the past week, its fastness and slowness all jumbled together like a never-ending day after a sleepless night, the enormity of the task ahead of her finally catching up to her that she needs that extra reassurance from the strongest woman she knows. 

She squeezes her mom back just as tight before pulling back and moving on to embrace Alma. 

Tessa looks over to Scott who has made his way over to the other side of the room to wrangle their daughter. When he catches her, running away from Jordan and hoping to be saved by her dad from being tagged and tickled by her aunt, he throws the girl up into the air before pulling her down to smother kisses on her neck. Eliza’s shrieks and giggles rings through the room, and Kevin, who she just finished hugging, grins at her knowingly. 

Eliza is trying to bat Scott’s face away as she squirms to jump out of his hold. Scott stops before the baby can start gasping for breath. Instead, he settles her back down on her feet and they make their way back to their family. 

Tessa breaks up her hug with Jordan when she feels a small body collide with the side of her leg. Eliza looks up at her and beams, squinting her eyes like Scott does, charming her mother before she holds up her arms and demands, “Up!” 

Tessa chuckles as she complies, hoisting Eliza up to have the baby wrap her legs around her waist. And then she twirls them around, with Eliza leaning her head back and Tessa having to cradle the back of her neck, wisps of baby hair blowing in the artificial wind. The girl calls for more, and by their third twirl around, Tessa finally catches on to Marie and Patch trying to beckon them over. 

She pulls Eliza back upright, gently shushing the girl’s protests at having her game stopped. Tessa shifts Eliza around to sit against her hip as she strides to the wings, looking over to her side to make sure Scott is following. 

When the three of them stand in front of Marie and Patch, Patch places his hand on Tessa’s right shoulder before starting, “There are four cameras pointed at you. One in the wings, one on the bottom of the stage to the left, one on the outside of the crowd to your right, and one in the middle of the crowd. Your angles are good so don’t worry about those.” 

Marie cuts through, “Start smiling before the curtains are pulled back. Wave to the crowd and look excited--point to a few people and act like you’ve just caught a close friend somewhere in that sea of people.” She does have friends in the crowd though. “Let the applause die down before you start talking, but be humbled and get them to quiet down during the applause.” Marie smooths a stray strand of Tessa's hair that had fallen out of her chignon, tucks it behind her ear. “Soften your body. Don’t be tense because the cameras will sense it.” 

Tessa can only nod, committing all of it to memory, schooling her face and expression into the politician the people outside are expecting. Now that the moment is here, her heart is beating a tad too quickly and much too loudly, her body feeling a flush of unwelcomed warmth.

Eliza must notice the difference, the shift in the air, because she pats on Tessa’s cheek, calling, “Mommy?” 

It’s that which Scott takes as his signal to take their daughter, reaching out for her. Eliza moves to his arms after a second of hesitation. 

When the girl is settled on Scott’s hip and glancing between the adults curiously, Tessa softens her expression by a lot, leaning forward to hold onto Eliza’s hand and press little kisses on the baby’s cheek, enough to leave a prominent lipstick stain. She smiles, trying to rub it off with her thumb. 

Straightening and breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Tessa nods once to Marie and Patch. Scott reaches over and squeezes her shoulder, then moves on to rub her back as if to warm her. Tessa leans into it, keeping at her breathing, willing her heart to slow down and quieten. 

And then Scott stops his ministrations. He offers Eliza to Patch, and after a moment of contemplating the offer, the girl moves to sit her bottom on Patch’s forearm, her back to his front. 

Scott reaches out to her, asking for her hand, and she gives it to him. He tugs her towards his chest and she realises then that he’s going for a hug. She follows, trusting him to guide her. 

She settles her right arm across his hip and around to settle on his lower back, her left arm over his right for her hand to grasp onto his shoulder blade. She tucks her chin into the crook of his neck and right shoulder, and she leans the side of her face towards his to press her temple against his, and she breathes out a shaky exhale. 

They’re enfolded into each other, no space between them. 

“Just breathe,” he says softly, trailing his left hand on a soothing path across her upper back, bringing her to press her chest right up against his until she can feel his heartbeat. His is only marginally slower than hers, but his breathing is more controlled--largely, she knows, for her benefit. She closes her eyes and tries to match her breathing to his. 

When their inhales threatens to push her a little away from his heart, she just pulls him in harder by his shoulder blade and he does the same against the small of her back. 

They stand there trapped in their own bubble, slowly but surely with each inhale and exhale their heartbeats slowing down to a normal resting tempo, and she feels like she has control of herself again. 

“Trust yourself, T,” he says. 

“I’m going to make a better world for Eliza to live in,” she confirms on an exhale. 

“I know you are, and she knows you will,” he encourages, his right arm across her lower back pulling her in much more securely. 

They stay in their bubble for just a couple more breaths, until she affirms into his ear, “I’m ready.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voting is important, yes, but even if your preferred candidate and party and ideology doesn't make it to Parliament/Government, that doesn't mean that that's the end. Democracy means that the will of the people must be listened to and acted upon. So you make a lot of noise, voice the needs of your community, to anyone who will listen. Justice will follow, even if it takes a while. 
> 
> Know your community and its needs, know your neighbours and help them when you can, and let them help you. Please don't be disillusioned with the state of the world. Every bit of kindness counts.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy whatever you celebrate, and to all a Merry Impeachment! May 2020 be kinder to us all, and may you be kinder to yourself. 
> 
> It might be a while until the next chapter since uni is done and I have to be an Adult after the new year, so here is something overly long until then. Nothing happens here, only fluff.
> 
> Thank Maria (@tisaqueen) for consulting on the 3.40pm part. Thank you, Maria, for being nice even though I missed every single deadline you gave me and gave myself, and thanks for trying to convince me to use a thermometer. Shout out to fate.

**(Thirty days before the election)**

**(6:39 AM)**

Her electoral office in London has never been this full. 

Tessa had taken her usual place behind her desk, with Marie-France on her left and Patrice on her right perching on folding chairs. Scott has situated himself on another folding chair against the corner closest to her. 

Her riding staff is present, three of them leaning against the cabinets near the open door, while Trennt had pulled up his own folding chair and sat himself next to Scott to argue about the Leafs’ chances in the upcoming season.

And there's the handful of the campaign team: Kaetlyn on one of the chairs in front of her desk, her laptop opened on her lap, and Joannie, their volunteer coordinator, seated on the matching chair with Kaitlin leaning herself over the back of it. Jeff, Meagan, Eric, and Lilah are clustered in what space there is between the back of Kaetlyn’s chair and the peace lilies against the wall, sharing two plastic chairs precariously between them.

Her office here is roughly the same size as what she has in Ottawa, there's hardly room to stretch. Usually she’d suffocate at the thought of such a squeeze, but because of last night there’s a zeal that is so palpable, so motivating and acutely delightful. Tessa can hear it in the easy banter that requires little refereeing despite the broad spectrum of personalities congregated in such a small space, can see it plainly in everyone's relaxed faces, easy to crack a smile, their focus drifting to her despite Patch being the one to lead their briefing, curious and at peace, like she's their proof that their work has purpose and is not futile, like she's their dreams of a better humanity personified. 

It’s scary and humbling and exciting, this hope that they have. (It’s hope that almost makes irrelevant the record high donations Meryl’s party is receiving from a number of contributors, always giving just under the maximum so their names don’t have to be disclosed. They all know from whom it’s from.)

Kaitlin had announced that donations to their own party was averaging twelve dollars, but it managed to raise them some five-hundred-thousand over the last week. Joannie reported five-thousand more volunteers across the country in the five hours after the relaunch. 

Jeff had read out headlines above the fold that earned high-fives and cheers, Meryl’s Education policy relegated to page three. It made Scott whoop loudly, pump his fists, and thump Trennt across his back with a little more enthusiasm than her researcher had braced himself for. 

Lilah’s polling has Tessa five points ahead of Meryl as the preferred Prime Minister. They’re finally ahead of Donohue and his pack, and only two points behind the Union Party. Even Marie and Patch had held back on their cynicism, despite the margin of error.

All of it makes her feel nineteen again, renewed with purpose and thrumming with energy to  _ Go _ . 

Patch had finished running through the day’s schedule. For Tessa (and Scott for the most part) the day will start in a primary school in Maia’s riding, serving food in their breakfast club, talking to kids and their teachers and letting slip bits of education and child welfare policies that breakfast TV correspondents can pick up on and report, starting a trail that will lead to the rally in Western University to convince students of the value of every single vote, finishing the day making a formal announcement outlining their long term plans for early childhood to adult education during a public meeting scheduled at quarter-to-six in the hall of their Education spokesperson’s old high school. Right in time for the six o’clock news to cross over to her and Charlène and the six other candidates running in the London area. 

And in between, those events, canvassing with Charlène in her riding, adding an invitation for the general meeting, and a conversation downtown with leaders of food service unions after the lunch rush to discuss minimum wage and their support. 

It's refreshing, this clarity in purpose. 

She's been ready since her alarm woke her at five. Rather than the usual fatigue that accompanied such a wake up call which kept her under her blankets and tangled with her husband for the time it took to give herself a pep talk, the first ring of her phone had her eyes blink open and alert, and quickly she’d reached over to the nightstand to cancel the alarm. She was up and out of bed and getting ready before Scott had to do the usual and shake her shoulder and push her out of bed. 

All that's left before they can go is their daily morales. 

“Scott, would you do the honours?” Marie asks, offering the tablet to him, not holding back on her toothy grin. 

Tessa squints at Marie. 

Scott accepts the device, but struggles for a moment as he flips the tablet this way and that, trying to get the screen’s orientation to stop rotating. Trennt takes pity on him and reaches over to hold the tablet still.

Tessa swivels her seat to face him partially, keeping half of her body still angled towards the others in the room.

“'Who does this--uhh,'” Scott stops. He looks up from the screen with his eyebrows comically high, frowning at Marie. 

Marie is unfazed. She’d been prepared for this reaction. “It's a compliment! Trust me, that's how young people talk to each other on the Internet now.”

Scott hesitates still, looking to his wife, frantic, mumbles, “Uhh…” 

Taking pity on him, Tessa holds out her hand for the tablet. He moves to pass it over, but he snatches it back at the last second and brings it to his chest to hide the screen. “Maybe we'll skip this one.” Then he thinks about it, “Maybe we'll skip this whole exercise today. These are reading like threats,” and he shoots Marie an unimpressed scowl.

He's sweet trying to protect her, Tessa smiles amusedly. But she's already seen the worst of them. 

“I read a few last night,” Tessa interjects then while they're on the topic, doubling as a save for Scott. (Actually, she’d scrolled to the bottom of her dash. They’d arrived back at Kate’s a little before two in the morning, and Scott promptly passed out on their bed after checking on the baby, and stripping down to his boxers. They just aren’t as young as they used to be. He’d been unavailable to coax the phone and Twitter away from her as she stayed awake, buzzed from the champagne Shae-Lynn had pressed to her, and still riding the high of having completed the most daunting task of the new campaign: starting.) “Someone was telling me to go back to Soviet Russia.”

Jeff waves it off without a second thought. “Don’t worry about them, Tess. If they’re accusing you of communism, we were never going to convince them.” 

Patrice rolls his eyes in agreement. 

Tessa makes a humming noise, contemplating. After all these years, she still struggles to resign herself to that point. It doesn’t stop her from wishing a civics lesson for the sorry idiot on the Internet. “I feel like--”

“Scott,” Jeff cuts across before she can continue her train of thought, “sorry, Tess,” he adds when he realises what he’s done, but turns back to Scott. “We’re still waiting, you know.” 

“Yeah, come on, Scott,” Patch cajoles, which is followed by sounds of agreement. “Do  _ you _ want to be the reason we’re all late to our appointments?” he taps on his watch. 

Indeed, Meagan is tapping her foot aggressively, while Jeff’s thumbs fly across the keys on phone, probably looking for the tweet himself, Lilah leaning over his shoulder. Lewis, by the door, is pulling out his own phone to follow Jeff's example. 

“Would you rather  _ I  _ read them out?” Patch offers. “Because we’re not getting out of here until we get our daily motivations. Need I remind you they were  _ your  _ idea.” 

Scott grimaces. 

“Oh my god, Scott,” Meagan bursts out, “they’re probably just thirst tweets. Like, seventy-five percent of the hashtags last night were people salivating over Tessa.” 

Scott’s face is a journey of emotions. Confusion, disbelief, wonder, confusion again, dislike, apprehension. 

“Read it, Scott,” Tessa urges him. She needs to know how other people are interpreting the comments anyways. 

He searches her face before gulping, deciding he’ll follow. 

“‘Who does this bitch--’” (he says this quietly and garbled), “‘think she is, with her perfect smile and her perfect cheekbones, pulling off a white pantsuit like that. It is Illegal,’ that’s with a capital ‘I’?” Scott’s tone rises in pitch, “‘And her fucking husband’,” (this too mumbled), “escorting her around like they're in some nineteenth century period drama. I haaate them.’ Exclamation marks and...emojis that I don't know.” 

Scott sighs. 

He turns his gaze up to hers, his eyebrows arched up, worried. Poor man, he's stayed too long out of social media he never got to witness the evolution of the English language. 

“Don't worry, Scott,” Kaetlyn pipes up, “that  _ is  _ how people express themselves. That one was good, that was pure idolatry,” she reassures him.

This point confuses him. “That's how  _ you _ talk to people? How do you still have friends?? I mean--”

Lilah interjects, “You have to be there. It’s like, an aggressive kind of love. Like, you love someone so much that you have to yell it out.” 

“But why do you have to yell it in insults? Why can’t you just say it normally? What if the other person reads it wrong?” he scratches his temple, his eyes squinted.

“Oh my god, Scott.” This time it’s Jeff, slapping himself on the forehead. “If you know the other person then there’s no misunderstanding.”

Scott sighs, frustrated now, “But  _ I _ misunderstood.” 

“Only you,” Patch joins in. 

“The swears are sometimes terms of endearment,” Lilah explains gently. “You just need to get back on Twitter.” 

“Or the Internet,” Marie weighs in, a gleeful grin on her face. 

“Does he even remember his password?” Eric says under his breath to Lilah who snorts. 

“Hey!” Tessa and Scott chides them at the same time. 

Their assessment is not entirely fair. Sure, he stays far, far away from Twitter and Facebook and all the rest, but he does well on Instagram as long as it's set to private with only their family and close friends to see. Tessa decides now is perhaps the time to save her husband from the bullying. 

“It’s kind of like how you see Eliza all chubby,” she translates into terms he understands, “and then she giggles at you, and all you want to do is eat her up.” 

He contemplates this, his thumb and forefinger pinching his chin, eyes squinted and searching. Then he makes a tsk-tsking sound and turns to Lilah, “Why didn’t you explain it like that?” 

Tessa giggles.

Trennt elbows Scott, “Read the next one,” he points to something further down the screen that catches his eye.

Scott, now a little more comfortable, delivers in a monotone voice, “‘Fucking hell, that fucking ah. I cannot fucking believe, oh fuck’?” 

“Mood,” Lewis quips. That gets a few chuckles. 

Scott looks up to Tessa and ponders that one, but, “No, nope,” he shakes his head, “still don’t get it.” 

Faintly, they hear Meagan mumble through her hands covering her face, “Fucking hell. Just read the next one, Scott.” 

“‘Step on me’,” he deadpans. 

Tessa’s lips trills in shock. Kaitlin chokes on her saliva. 

Patrice's left eyebrow is quirked so high as he turns to Marie questioningly that he looks like an amused vulture. 

Scott elbows Trennt as he misses the joke. “Is that weird? Is that a sex thing?”

“Ha!” Meagan smirks. “You'd know that one wouldn't you.” 

Tessa's lips are pursed as she smiles politely, eyebrows raised high, eyes wide in distressed, as people snort and giggle. 

Scott refuses to meet her eyes. Instead, he looks down at the tablet and keeps scrolling. 

“‘I’m crying,’” he reads and raises his voice to be heard above the amusement, eager to move on. “‘I can’t stop crying’,” this piques people’s interest. “‘I can’t believe we’re going to get back the House.’ Huh. See, now  _ that _ ,” he stares at Jeff, Lilah, and Kaetlyn in turn, each one raising their hands up in mock surrender when his eyes land on them, “is how you should write a comment.” 

He’s cute, Tessa muses, her ears tuning out the exasperation his comments receive, smile soft, eyes mirthful as she watches him scroll with his index finger. 

He pauses in his scrolling, finger hovering a touch above the screen and settled on one thing, and there’s a pause in the chatter as the room waits for Scott to read out the next one, everyone riled up now and anticipating the next laugh. But instead of reading whatever it is aloud, a flush works its way up his neck, his cheeks, colouring his whole face pink, made all the more pronounced by his white shirt. 

Tessa leans forward to grasp his forearm, making to pull the tablet from his grasp, a question on the tip of her tongue. Before she can say anything, Scott asks, “Marie, are you  _ sure  _ these are appropriate for a work environment?”

At that, Trennt leans over Scott’s shoulder and reads out himself. “‘No wonder Tessa Virtue is always glowing. Have you seen her husband? She gets to climb that every night.’” 

There’s a split second wherein Tessa’s eyes pop wide in horror, frantically darting across the expressions of everyone in the room, her mind only capable of recalling one word:  _ misconduct _ ; where Kaetlyn looks in danger of choking, and where Jeff looks pained; where Patrice looks like he’s about to sneeze, and where Scott, poor Scott, flushes even redder than before and pulls his shoulders up to his ears, slapping his hand over his eyes, ready to die. 

And then Trennt brings his hands up to cover his face as he loses his mind guffawing. It’s instantaneous. The room roars in laughter, people slapping their knees as they start to cry from laughing. 

Scott snatches the tablet up, fumbling to turn off the screen. And he holds it back out to Marie, but Marie is doubled over, laughing boisterously, wiping tears from her eyes.  _ That _ was probably why she handed Scott the tablet instead of doing it herself. 

Patch lets out big, honking laughs, it makes the dimples on his cheeks appear. 

Joannie is breathless, “It’s funny--” she chokes out, “because it’s probably true!” and then she starts crying in amusement too, renewing people’s giggles.

Tessa and Scott look to each other. 

Tessa tries to find amusement in the situation, she really does. Call her a kill joy, but no matter how hard she tries, all she finds is mortification. 

There is nothing to do but wait. Wait for the laughing to peter out. 

But ten seconds pass, and then another five, and another five on top of that, it stretches on for an eternity, no end in sight because when the laughter does slow down, someone will make a quip at their expense and start up the riot all over again. 

There’s no point. 

“Oh-kay,” Tessa draws out. “We all have work to do,” she stands and reaches for Scott's hand to pull him up. “We're gonna go,” Tessa announces, voice louder than usual to be heard, grabbing her bag from under the desk, and her coat from the back of her chair. 

Patrice waves them off, a wicked grin gracing his face as he subdues his laughter for a moment.

Tessa and Scott fast walk out the door. 

Kaetlyn is jolted into action, closing her laptop with a snap, shoving it into her bag as she fights her giggles, shrugging her coat on and making her way to the back of the building where Tessa’s white Acura SUV is parked. Kaetlyn catches up to them as Scott is unlocking the doors, clambering aboard. 

Her assistant is pink in the face and a little breathless, doing her best to school her features into something neutral when she settles in the seat behind Tessa’s, beside Eliza’s seldom used car seat. Tessa can appreciate that effort, even if Scott can’t at that moment as he hunches over and knocks his forehead repeatedly onto the edge of the steering wheel. 

“I cannot go back in there, T.” 

She reaches over to place her hand on his back, soothing from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back, leaning her face as close to his as the centre console allows. She plasters on a smile to make him see that she's not upset, even if she wants to be, “It’s okay, we’re going to be on the bus from now on. You won’t have to step into the London office ever again if you don’t want to. And I promise Marie is never going to be in charge of compilation ever again.”

He merely continues his pained groaning. 

She feels for him. 

It’s not the first they’ve heard others tease them about their relationship. But Scott expresses love through physical touch and words of affirmation, while she leans towards acts of service and quality time. It’s inevitable that, together, they appear a little over the top. 

Their siblings like to torture them for their apparently sickeningly sweet and downright scandalous affection; Jordan and their brothers will take turns sharing articles from gossip columns and blog posts to their group chat, wagging their fingers and laughing at their expense. 

But their family is different. Not only can she and Scott roll their eyes and be as insufferable right back, their family have witnessed the years of hard work. Joint therapy, difficult conversations, their biggest fights, their loudest silences, the compromises, the understanding, and the care that has gone into the deep bond they have. Tessa knows that whatever teasing they receive is from a place of genuine care and affection. 

Scott may have signed them up for that explicit kind of response when he agreed for his image to be used in her campaign, but this wasn’t what he imagined. It was different four years ago when they tried the same tactic. Four years ago people saw Scott by her side and saw a supportive husband, a nuclear family in the making. And though it was demeaning, playing into the patriarchy, having Scott by her side, talking her up, stopped people from questioning her life choices. 

People may have asked after the possibility of children, but people still had appropriate boundaries not to inquire about  _ how _ they were going on about having them. 

“If it’s any consolation,” Kaetlyn throws in, smiling but gentle, “everyone’s starting the day in a really good mood.” 

Tessa grimaces. 

Scott groans again, pressing his face into his hands into the steering wheel, bumping on the horn by accident. The inhabitants of the black SUV parked next to them look over in concern at the sound. Tessa continues to rub his back, in the same soothing rhythm they use to calm their daughter when she’s overwhelmed, the same steady pace that puts their baby to sleep. She feels him slow down his breaths. 

Suddenly, he sits upright to turn and face Kaetlyn. “We’re never bringing whatever that was up again. You hear me, Kaetlyn?! Never again okay, so no more twittering--”

“Tweeting,” the young woman corrects.

“You know what I meant! No one in our camp is going to acknowledge those kinds of comments, okay? Get that around to everyone,” he’s firm. 

Kaetlyn pulls out her phone but looks to Tessa. 

Tessa smiles politely and nods. 

At that, Kaetlyn begins to type out the memo. 

Then Scott does a shimmy, emits a loud sound resembling a bark, and throws his arms away from his body, flicking his wrists as though flicking off water, washing his hands clean. 

“Everyone buckled?” Scott’s tone reverts back to its usual cheeriness. He slides his shades on and presses the button to turn on the car, turning on the radio perpetually tuned in to the news. 

Tessa envies him. Where she dissects her reactions to mortifying ordeals one layer of feeling at a time whenever she’s left in her own head, Scott often feels his feelings in one loud chaotic burst. It means he can be volatile, the difference between tepid water and a rapid boil without the simmering in between. It means she has to be the tempering force, which she doesn’t begrudge him because he’s the counteracting agent to her tendency for internalising, but sometimes, like now, she wishes they could switch places, for her to be able to let off steam, banishing things from her mind with little mind for their consequences past the present moment. 

As Scott releases the break, the engine of the car parked beside them revs to life. 

The security detail have been trailing her since the announcement. 

Most times, Tessa ignores them, going about her day, her appointments, her events, like everything was normal as before. It’s only when they're in public, when people swarm, that she remembers they’re there because then Matteo, Ivan, Sasha, and Nik box her in like her own personal armoured shield. Which she supposes they are. 

(The first night that they swept and circled her house and delivered an all clear to her in person, Scott had massaged her tensed shoulders and assured her, “This is normal, this is our new normal, it’s fine, everything is fine, don’t worry, Tess, it’s all normal.”

Kate had been unruffled when she, Scott and Eliza turned up to her house with them in tow, earpieces in, shades on, each one looking in a distant direction. Kate had only inquired deadpan if she was expected to feed them too. That had made her and Scott knock their heads together giggling like children. 

Eliza has been around them only a handful of times, and each time the girl’s attempts to wave a cheerful ‘Hello’ had been met with stoic nods behind dark sunglasses. The baby had not been impressed. Her fine eyebrows furrowed low and her lips pouted, Eliza had huffed and skulked back up into Scott’s arms to be carried and hugged until something else caught her attention. 

Taking a page out of Scott’s book, Tessa has been doing her best not to think about it anymore than she has to, focusing instead on the fact that they’re safe. If only to save herself from any more undue stress.) 

Scott drives them east to the suburbs, directly into the glare of a late September sunrise. 

Kaetlyn keeps up a steady stream of information about the school, their funding, their demographics, their programmes. Tessa hums and nods her acknowledgement. 

Tessa slips on her own pair of shades, lowers the visor, and rests her head high on the headrest to avoid getting the sun’s beams in her eyes. If she had had to drive, it would have annoyed her. 

Once they’ve turned and merged into the main road traffic, Scott removes his right hand from the steering wheel to rest it on Tessa’s bare thigh, stroking his thumb leisurely, the hem of her black lace dress having ridden up when she sat down. 

She feels more than hears the vibrations that accompanies his humming, quieter than Rod Black's recitation of the weather forecast, but of which she's more attuned to. She immediately recognises it as  _ Once Upon a Dream _ , so she has to smile to herself and place her hand atop his and squeeze his hand. 

She looks straight ahead at the disproportionate number of cars out on a Thursday morning, absentmindedly contemplating whether they should take a back road if they want to get to the school on time. Distractedly, she uses her index finger to draw along the protruding veins on the back of Scott’s hand. Lightly, she trails along, using feeling to navigate her path back and forth the criss-cross of veins starting from the skin exposed by the cuff of his sleeve, leading to his knuckles. In response, Scott squeezes her thigh. 

Tessa pauses tracing the outline of his thumb to look over to him, and squeezes her thighs together, (which he notices). By some Pavlovian reflex she freezes and her mind flashes to two nights ago, the memory of his hands soothing its way slowly up and up the insides of her thighs, trailing his index finger along the crease between her thigh and her sex, but never wandering to where she wanted them to be, not until she whimpered and plead and gasped out explicitly where and what she needed, not until finally she gave him a command.

She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, turning her head in his direction, ready to scold him and push his hand away. God, didn’t he learn anything from ten minutes ago? But then the sun, half-way up its ascent, bathing everything in a golden, buttery yellow, haloes Scott’s profile, and the reprimand dies in her mouth. 

He’d cut his hair at Marie’s behest, and it no longer has the same volume and curl that she prefers. But there still remained enough flow for her to run her fingers through and grip onto, providing her an unadulterated view of his features--his forehead, sculpted, expressive, his jaw clenched as he tries to cover up his smirk, his jaw, chiselled and strong, perfectly proportioned to remain nestled in the space between her thighs for as long as he and she want; it makes his cheekbones more prominent, his nostrils flare and call to attention the endearing slope of his nose. She can imagine the mirth that’s sure to be in his eyes at the knowledge he surely has of what he’s done, and she licks her lips and clenches her own jaw in response.

Kaetlyn clears her throat, loudly.

Tessa snaps her hand back from Scott’s to fold over her other hand on her other thigh. It makes Scott put his right hand back on the steering wheel and turn his attention from the windshield to her, but Tessa can’t make out his expression for the sunglasses he wears. 

They’re not doing anything wrong, she assures herself, pulling on the hem of her dress to cover more of her thigh.

Scott checks in on the rear-view mirror and clears his own throat. “Did you want the heat off, Kaet?” 

“No,” Kaetlyn shakes her head, avoiding eye contact, “I was going to ask Tessa if she wanted me to quiz her.”

Tessa keeps her eyes straight ahead to hide her flushed cheeks. 

The other two turn their gazes to Tessa. So she shakes her head too, “Kids will ask whatever they want, I’ve got it.”

And then no one else speaks. 

Only Rod Black on the radio droning about petrol prices occupies the silence.

They still have at least another twelve minutes before they reach Maia’s house and make their way to the school on foot together. 

“Should we listen to something else?” Tessa cuts through, reaching for the buttons on the screen for something to do. 

“Country!” Scott snaps out fast, breaking the tension, reaching for the buttons on the screen himself, pushing Tessa's hand away, back onto her own lap. She doesn't bother resisting. 

“Damn it,” Kaetlyn mutters. 

Tessa tries to hide her smile. She can relate. 

Once Scott finds the country station he belts out an overly enthusiastic " _ Yeehaw!" _ and lets the steering wheel go to wave his hands in a couple of circles above his head as well as his seat allows, his shoulders shimmying and his head bobbing in a confused jig. 

“Scott!” Tessa scolds. But it’s not use. They’re at a stop light and he’s already playing an air banjo, belting the chorus along with John Michael Montogemery, removing his shades to throw onto the dashboard, turning in his seat to face and serenade her, eyes bright and playful. _ “ _ _ Hey pretty lady won't you give me a sign? I'd give anything to make you mine o' mine, I'll do your biddin' and be at your beg and call!”  _

Secretly pleased, Tessa groans and covers her face with her hand. Kaetlyn, on the other hand, releases a peal of giggles. 

Tessa twists her body around to lean across the centre console and face her assistant. She mock scolds, “Don't encourage him!”

It's then that the cars behind them begin tooting their horns, trying to get them to move along with the change of the lights. Startled, they all jump in their seats, Scott hits the gas as he looks at the rear-view mirror and yells out a “ _ Sorry!” _

She thinks that will spell the end of  _ Sold _ , but it only makes Scott start singing louder and for Kaetlyn's laugh to become breathless. 

Tessa gives up trying to hold back her smile and her giggles. She joins in, banjo and all. 

* * *

**_natashaatwell_ **

_ So...Tessa Virtue came to my university.  _

_ I know most of you follow me for MCU content, but I’m awestruck so read more under the cut. _

_ → _

_ The youth wing of the Citizens Party at Western organized a rally on the quad, with special guest Tessa Virtue. She took over as leader of her party just over a week ago, and she's the youngest ever to do that, that much I knew. I wasn't even going to go since politics isn't my thing, but I had a friend (aka @anneboleins) who really wanted to so I tagged along to keep her company.  _

_ We were near the edge of the crowd standing on a picnic table to see, so we saw her make her way from her car to the grassy area of the quad with her entourage of bodyguards as well as some assistants, and anneboleins pointed out Tessa’s husband, Scott Moir, who walked behind her. He stayed close to her throughout the rally.  _ _ We have a bit of a crush on him now.  _

_ Someone from the uni group gave her a wooden step stool to stand on to make her speech, and she spent fifteen minutes talking about education, climate change, human rights, and how capitalism can’t keep going at the pace it’s on. She talked about the importance of voting and how voter turnout, the youth vote particularly, has been declining at the same time as social inequality has been rising. That correlation really blew my mind because like, we’re in uni so we definitely have enough privilege not to have to care about income inequality and stuff, but at the same time we’re the ones who don’t bother thinking much about who and what we vote for--if we do at all--because the consequences don’t impact us much.  _

_ I can’t do it justice so just go watch her full speech  _ _ here _ _. Her voice is so soothing and passionate, I need her to record an audiobook asap. Tessa does a really good job of explaining everything in ways you can understand without having to know the political jargon. (But if you do want an analysis with the jargon and the appropriate nerdiness, go check out @anneboleins’  _ _ write up _ _.) _

_ When she finished her speech, someone handed her a gopro and she took a selfie with the crowd, so anneboleins and I are on her instagram now, nbd. And then when she had to step down to start interacting with the crowd, she twisted her body around to face her husband and she put her arms out, and he put his hands on her waist and lifted her off the stool and onto the ground with like a little twirl like it was no big deal?!?!?!  _ _ We’re definitely in love with him. _

_ It’s a good thing anneboleins and I are short, because we managed to push into the crowd and be in front of Tessa in about 10 minutes of pushing.  _

_ Before I was ready, I was pushed in front of Tessa and she looked me in the eyes and said “Hi!” and offered me her hand to shake, and I was so unprepared, I didn’t know what to say because I’ve never followed politics before and all I know about her policies was the speech she just gave. So I started rambling. I took her hand and shook it, and she has a surprisingly firm grip, and her hands are soft, and I started going on about women in the spotlight and honestly, I blacked out, I don’t remember much of what I said while trying to impress her.  _

_ I do remember that she asked me what I wanted to see in my future, and it felt like a serious question and I definitely hadn’t prepared for it, so I tried to be funny and said “For my prof to acknowledge that I’m right about Jane Austen being the best author in the English language.” I only remember it because I was so embarrassed by my response, but she was so nice about it and made me feel okay about it, you know what I mean?? She was so cool, she laughed and then she asked me “Oh, what do you study?” and she was genuinely interested.  _

_ “I’m majoring in English Lit” I told her. “I’ve got an essay on Austen due next week.”  _

_ And she replied “I  _ love _ Jane Austen.” And she leaned in close and like, lowered her voice and told me “You know, I named my daughter after Elizabeth Bennet”. And then she winked at me and oh my god, we’re basically best friends now.  _

_ And then I shoved my phone to some random person in front of us to take our picture, and she wrapped her arm around my shoulders and I leaned into her and we were basically cheek to cheek. I was so overwhelmed that I forgot to breathe but she noticed and giggled and told me “It’s okay, it’s only me, you can breathe.” Like wow, you guys don’t understand, her giggling at you is like listening to an angel, I can’t get over it, I keep replaying it in my head. I did as she said and I took a breath in, but she smelled like strawberries and I got overwhelmed again so my breath got stuck. After we took our picture and anneboleins was making her way in to get her turn with Tessa, Tessa looked me in the eyes again and said “It was so nice to meet you! Keep in touch, I want to know how you do on your essay!”  _

_ I watched anneboleins get her turn meeting Tessa, but I was shaking and ready to start crying because like, wow. She definitely leaves an impression. There were hundreds of people trying to talk to her and get a selfie with her, but I never felt like she was rushing to finish talking to me. She looks into your eyes and she holds your gaze and her eyes are so green it’s like she’s staring into your soul. It’s terrifying because I’ve never looked anyone in the eyes for that long, ever, but I felt so  _ seen  _ my soul was rejoicing or something _ . __

_ I thought anneboleins was so cool and breezy about interacting with Tessa, but as I was dragging her to go to the bathroom with me so I could have a freak out,  _ she _ started crying and going on about how inspiring etc, and I was so shocked because she never shows emotion in public, so you know, The Tessa Virtue Effect.  _

_ Other tidbits:  _

_ Anneboleins asked her what shade her lipstick was because it was really subtle but sophisticated and Tessa laughed and said it’s MAC Mehr.  _

_ And her dress! It was black and with lace over it, and it made her look like a kindergarten teacher with the white Peter Pan collar it had, ;asdkfj;asdkajf she was really cute. _

_ Some guy tried to get close to Tessa quite forcefully, and Scott intercepted the guy before her security people could and like, ~gently held onto his shoulder and said something. I don’t know what he said but it was so hot to watch. _

_ #we’re citizens party volunteers now #tessa virtue #canadian election 2019 #the citizens party #politics #personal  _

**_167 notes_ **

**_liberalismsm_ ** _ if you fuckers don’t vote out the union party after this then i don’t know you _

**_anneboleins_ ** _ @natashaatwell you forgot to mention how her assistant was making notes when people said stuff to her _

**_seethemuses_ ** _ found my new otp lol _

**_story-of-my-daydreams_ ** _ I'm honestly so fucking obsessed with her. Like, her outfits? Her hair and make-up? Her posture, her grace? Her speech? Her passion? Her policies? All on point, 10/10, I would give my life for her  _

**_justanotherusername_ ** _ is she as beautiful in person? _

**_natashaatwell_ ** _ @justanotherusername that goes without saying  _

**_natashaatwell_ ** _ @anneboleins I didn’t even notice! But thanks for telling me because now I love her even more!! A queen who listens and takes note!!! _

**_theartofdecadence_ ** _ from now on theartofdecadence dot tumblr dot com is a blog dedicated to Scott Moir the dilf _

* * *

**(9:47 PM)**

Tessa called ahead once the Arena was in sight. The Moirs are early to rise; early to bed, so Tessa appreciates Alma, already in her pyjamas, staying up to open the kitchen door for her, taking one of the handbags she carries as she ushers her to a chair on the kitchen table, recounting how they watched her live on the six o’clock news, and offering her a drink. It’s clear where Scott learnt to mother. 

Tessa deposits her bags on the chair Alma offers but stays standing. She turns down the tea, but she accepts the hug that Alma offers in lieu. It’s a lingering hug, squeezed in close and tight, and Tessa can feel Alma’s warmth even through the wool coat she’s wearing. So Tessa relaxes into the hold, releasing a sigh, laying her temple against her mother-in-law’s, listening as she tells her there’s lamb left over from dinner in the fridge for her if she’s hungry, and that she’s laid out the ingredients and equipment she’ll need for the cake on the island. 

Tessa smiles softly. It’s clear from whom Scott learnt to hug too. 

Alma pats her on the back twice before pulling away, waving her goodnight on her way up, informing her that Scott and Eliza are upstairs. 

Tessa’s exhausted. She’s met countless people, so many sounds and touches and smells and sights. She’s grateful for all that she learnt that day, but she’d like nothing more than silence now. To curl up in her reading chair, wrapped in a throw blanket, stuck between pages of the murder-mystery her sister had recommended under the soft glow of her lamp. 

She knows she’ll have to speak with Patch about adjusting her schedule to allow for more non-contact time than car rides to and from events afford. 

It’s only the second day of proper campaigning. If her enemies could see her now. 

Still, she’s a mother with another job to do. 

Tessa toes off her sneakers at the foot of the stairs, leaving her in her white ankle socks to tread quietly, skipping the steps that she knows creak, and to the second door on the left from the landing, Danny’s old room turned into a nursery/playroom for the grandchildren that visit. 

The door is well oiled so only Scott notices her entrance. 

The nightlight is on and Scott is shirtless, are the first things she notices. 

Eliza’s wearing a matching pyjama set, baby blue with printed white clouds--for good dreams, Scott insisted--her feet bare. Her light brown hair sticks up in places, and her arms are wrapped around her father’s neck, her head resting on his shoulder, face pressed into his neck. Scott wears only grey sweatpants, holding Eliza to his chest with one arm supporting her bottom, and his other hand rubbing her back, lightly bouncing and pacing in front of the crib, crooning  _ I Have A Dream _ , trying to soothe her to sleep. Their baby looks so small. So protected. 

Eliza’s body is limp and Tessa thinks the girl is already asleep, but once she’s close enough she realises that the baby’s eyelids close for only a long second before fluttering open again, furrowing her brows and pouting as she fights to stay awake. 

Tessa places a hand on Scott’s bicep, the other on Eliza’s nappy clad bottom, and she tilts her head back slightly, raising herself onto her toes to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, before Eliza notices Tessa’s presence and twists around, reaching for her wordlessly. 

They settle into the same position Eliza had been with Scott, Tessa leaning her head down to press soft kisses onto Eliza’s forehead. 

“Were you waiting for me, baby?” she whispers. 

The girl nods into Tessa’s neck.

Tessa smiles. “I missed you,” she coos. 

Eliza yawns and hums, squeezing her arms around Tessa’s neck tighter before relaxing. 

Tessa looks Scott up and down as she starts swaying with their daughter, reaching over to pinch the skin above his hip. “You didn’t pack a shirt?” she smirks. 

He chuckles under his breath. “She wouldn’t settle.” 

Tessa hums, pressing her cheek on the top of Eliza’s head, smelling her hair, fresh from a bath. “You do smell nice,” she concedes yo him. Alma and Joe’s house smells foreign, a little out of place, but at least Scott and their daughter smell like home. 

“She finished her milk,” he answers before she can ask. 

Tessa nods, keeps swaying. “Where’s Bunny?” she murmurs into Eliza’s temple, though the question is for Scott. 

Scott walks to the closet, opening it to retrieve the elephant plush toy that had been a gift from Jordan the day of Eliza’s birth. It’s blue-grey, velveteen smooth and a lot floppy. It had been bigger than Eliza then. Now the girl is taller, but only by a head. 

He returns to drape it over Eliza’s back, the elephant’s front legs over the girl’s shoulders, and Tessa adjusts her right arm to accommodate Eliza’s comfort item, holding them both close. 

“She got mad and threw him away,” Scott explains. 

“Is that so?” she asks the baby in a whisper. “But it’s so much more cosy with Bunny.” 

Eliza merely grunts, her eyes now closed and relaxed, her mouth opened. 

Tessa hoists Eliza a little higher on her shoulder as she continues to sway, beginning the baby’s lullaby, a prayer for a better world; a compromise between Tessa’s taste for 80’s rock and Scott’s preference for country. 

Scott slides himself down onto the floor near the half opened door, his legs stretched out, his arms crossed as he leans his head back on the wall, eyes closing, listening. He’s flagging too. 

He’d stood on the sidelines watching her speak and engage, been her hype man in the crowd up until her after conversation with unionists when he’d taken his leave to be in time to get to Kate’s house to greet Eliza when she woke from her nap at three, in time for them to go to the playground they go to when they accompany Tessa to London, in an attempt to keep at least parts of the toddler’s routine intact. He’d driven them to Ilderton to join his parents for dinner; he’s been keeping the kid entertained for hours, endured what she’s going to assume was a tantrum before bedtime, while he prepared their things for weeks on a bus across the country, and executed the changed plans for Eliza’s birthday. She loves him. 

Halfway through the first stanza the baby begins to snore, just softly, lightly, even puffs of breath on Tessa’s neck, so she knows it’s not the fake, obnoxious snores the girl makes when she’s pretending to sleep when she’s forced to nap against her will. Tessa keeps swaying, running through the whole song for good measure. 

When she stops singing, Scott’s eyes pop open and he rubs his hands across his face as he pulls himself up with a muffled groan.

He takes the elephant so Tessa can lay Eliza in the crib, and he sits it upright on one of the tiny chairs next to the colouring table. Tessa brings the white cotton blanket up to Eliza’s waist, watching to see if the girl will stay asleep. Eliza just raises her arms above her head. Her breathing evening out. 

Scott joins her side. And then they just stare at their baby. 

Her last night as a one year old--can they still call her ‘baby’ after she turns two? Does she have to move to a toddler bed so soon?--she’s still so small. 

And Scott’s hand comes up to the back of Tessa’s neck, massaging, before pulling her close to lean the top of his head against her temple. 

They both sigh. 

Reminisce. 

All too soon he’s tugging on her hand and leading her out of the door, pausing briefly to reach down and turn off the nightlight, leaving the door off the latch. 

“I already ate,” she tells him before he has to ask. 

“Hey,” he chuckles under his breath, weary of the sleeping house, “well done, kiddo,” and he pulls her to his naked chest, her head locked under his arms, to pepper kisses on her cheek. 

She’s smiling as she wriggles out of his hold. She pats him on his pecs, warm and solid, longer than is chaste with his parents two doors down, before turning. “I’m going to shower,” she announces over her shoulder. 

He catches her with a slap to her ass, “Go get yourself pyjamas first,” he whisper-shouts. 

Her hand on the doorknob, Tessa exaggerates a pout in response.

Scott tuts and pinches her side, so she tilts her head back and puckers her lips. (He was always going to do it for her, he just wants his kiss first.)

He leans down and kisses her properly then, his lips warm and his tongue seeking, and it’s wet and delicious. He growls a little as he pulls her closer by the waist to his naked torso, his nipples pebbling as they brush on the lace of her dress, and Tessa feels the sound vibrate in her chest, leading her to moan into his mouth, to trail her fingers down the line of his spine before gripping onto the round globes of his ass, pulling him in and pushing her pelvis flush to his. It’s coming home. 

They make out against the bathroom door, who knows how long, but by the time they pull away from each other to catch their breaths, Tessa’s wet between her legs and Scott is half-hard against her stomach. They’d only stopped because Scott had groaned a little too loudly and Tessa, confusedly, heard a loud snore in response, and she remembered they weren’t in their own home, prompting her to take her hands off him and pull her head back in shock, hitting it on the door. 

Scott steps back and runs both hands through his hair, looking in the direction of his parents’ room. When all they hear is silence, he opens the bathroom door for her and urges her in, turning on the light, while he makes a detour to his childhood bedroom to get Tessa her pyjamas. 

She presses a hand to her heart, trying to control her exhales. 

That was the rush she needed. 

She steps up to the sink and begins removing her jewellery and the pins in her hair, and slipping off her socks. It’s then that Scott taps on the door, and she moves to open it wide enough to tug him inside. 

He places her pyjamas--baby pink shorts and matching long-sleeved shirt with grey printed elephants (in honour of their daughter)--and fuzzy blue socks on the towel rack. Without prompting, he unzips her dress for her, helping her step out of it.

He folds up her dress to place on the counter to be put in her suitcase for laundry later, and in the mirror her eyes rove across his broad chest, his arms solid, veiny, strong, the definition on his abs, a path she’s fond of taking with her tongue. She can tell he’s still half-hard, no matter how much he tries to keep his lower half from pressing against her. She turns around to face him, maybe a little incensed, “Are you going to put a shirt on? Because I don’t have the energy for  _ that _ .” 

He chortles. “You think  _ I _ do? You’re the one who dragged me into the bathroom.” 

“And you’re the one who undid my zip,” she raises her eyebrow in challenge. 

He giggles and tickles her at her waist, which just makes  _ her _ giggle. Frantically, he shushes her, reminding her of just a moment before. 

But as she locks her eyes with his in the mirror as she unhooks her bra, slipping it off to add on top of the pile, his gaze turns hungry as he draws his eyes across her naked torso: her collarbones exquisite and her shoulders strong, her abs sculpted and her navel piercing winking at him in the light; her breasts, small, flushed from watching him watch her, and her nipples, tight at the thought of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, his cock still half-hard in his boxers, now pressing into her ass. 

He flicks his eyes back up to meet hers, swallows thickly before husking, “Do you want to?” 

“I’m always up for an orgasm.” He knows that. 

“Right now?” 

Tessa shrugs. Who knows when they’ll get another chance in the coming days. He’s probably making the same calculation she’s making right then. “If we can. I’m exhausted though, I don’t think I could do much. And you’ll have to be quiet,” she teases. “Can you do that?” 

He growls. He spins around to turn on the shower, pulling down his sweatpants. She turns around to face him then, tugging her underwear down before he can do it for her. 

“What about you,” she asks, her eyes hungry now too, when he doesn’t move to tug his boxer-briefs off. 

“This isn’t about me,” he husks into her ear, his hands, large and calloused and sure, gripping onto her waist. 

He presses her against the door, his left arm hitching her thigh above his, then caressing her outer thigh, up to her hip, her waist, then down again; pressing himself firmly between her legs, his right hand trailing up her torso, his thumb finding her nipple, teasing, flicking, making her clench around nothing, beginning to drip down the inside of her thigh, and she tilts her head back and to the side so he can begin placing open mouthed kisses on her neck. She combs her fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. 

“You know,” she gasps, “that’s--that’s a lot of w-water you’re wasting-- _ oh _ !” 

He’s brought his hand down between them, his fingers forming a V, gathering the wetness from the outer lips of her cunt to stroke higher and tease around her clit. And he brings his mouth down to hers, and Tessa lets him silence whatever concern she had, because now all she feels is yearning, a delicious shiver, pressure building, and she demands from him  _ more, fuck, Scott, more.  _

He does as he’s told, rubbing at her clit before he slips two of his fingers inside her, thick and hot, god, she loves them, loves how well he knows to crook them just so, how fast she needs him, knows how to angle his hand so that his palm makes contact with her clit when he thrusts them inside her. She brings her hand to his shoulder blade, trailing across the muscles on his back, down and down the line of his spine, until her hand slips under his boxers, pressed firmly on his ass, and she gives it the squeeze it deserves, pulling him closer, and then he’s groaning, grinding his clothed, hard cock against her thigh. She pulls him down into a kiss. 

He lets go of her thigh to use his hand to play with her nipples, scraping his thumbs against their peaks, tugging on them just so, and it’s enough to get her legs to start shaking, and the small part of her brain that’s still capable of coherent thought wants to find amusement in his efficiency and tease him about it, but then he adds a third finger, stretching her out, scraping deliciously against her walls and her insides begin to flutter, so she lets out a long, low moan instead, tipping her head back as her eyes roll into the back of her head. 

But the contact her head made with the door produces a knocking sound, and she can feel him smirk before his kisses turn languid, slowing down his ministrations between her legs as well. He breaks the seal of their kiss to move his lips just below her ear, panting, “Be quiet, Tess, or my parents are gonna know.” 

Tessa can’t bring herself to care at the present moment. She rolls her pelvis up into his hand to urge him on again, slots her lips back over his, licking sinfully into his mouth before drawing back and capturing his lower lip between her teeth, tugging lightly. “We gave them a grandchild,” she pants, “cat’s out of the bag.” 

He releases a chuckle, which she’s sure was a lot louder than any of the moaning she’s been doing, and he stops what he’s been building up inside her and she can’t have that, no, she can’t. She’s been keyed up all day, frustrated with a lot of the people she’d met, she needs Scott to go faster, go deeper, fill her up, finish her off. 

So she pushes him back by the shoulder, makes him meet her eyes and their seriousness, and finally he understands. 

He kisses his way down her front, dropping to his knees before her, and Tessa doesn’t hesitate to swing her leg over his shoulder and pull his head between her thighs. 

That definitely stops his laughing. He’s all business after that. 

* * *

**(11:11 PM)**

The original plan for Eliza’s second birthday had been a special breakfast with just the three of them, where Tessa would take a late morning so they could go to a petting zoo. Then Saturday, the day after, would have been a woodland themed party in their backyard in Ottawa for all of their family and playgroup friends to attend. 

Elvis’ resignation changed all of that. 

Sure, Tessa will still take a late morning, not meeting local farmers until eleven-thirty-- something that had made Patch nervous, only appeased by the promise that she and Scott will post something cute and relatable about the party to excuse her absence from campaigning during the best hours of the day. 

Of course, there won’t be a petting zoo, that day or any other day, because she and Scott had deemed the cameras following Tessa too risky for their daughter’s privacy. There won’t be friends from playgroup or much of their family to attend because of the change in date and location, pouring three months of advance notice down the drain. There won’t be any catering, instead making do with a backyard barbecue and the specialities those who can attend will bring. Nor will there be a professionally decorated backyard, just the decorations (that they’ve been curating over the past five months) that could fit in the trunk of Scott’s SUV. 

But it’s a blessing of fate, Tessa decides, that her husband hails from a small town whose claim to fame are its agriculture and rural lifestyle, meaning that they could excuse making a personal trip out of rubbing elbows with farmers and their unions. If their daughter had had to celebrate her birthday on a bus travelling between one rally and the next, Tessa would have been guilt-ridden for years. Eliza won’t remember the day, but Tessa most certainly will.

So Scott putters around the living room pinning up the banner and other hanging decorations, unboxing the centrepieces and props they’d assembled weeks ago unable to resist, all under the judging eyes of Paw de Chat (who will be living with Alma and Joe for the next month). And Tessa, determined to be a good mother, tries to make the cake. 

Tessa had picked the recipe because it was literally named “Easiest Chocolate Birthday Cake”. She had been convinced that even she could do it despite her history (or rather lack thereof) with baking.

And yet here she is being foiled. 

“Shit,” she hisses, “fuck this stupid shit.”

She had skipped sifting the cocoa powder since she overlooked the instruction as she fumbled to get the cocoa to stop leaving pockets of space as she leveled the cup with the back of a butter knife. Eventually she gave up and just heaped cocoa a little over the edge of the cup and dumped it in. 

She got through whisking the egg mixture to the right consistency and folding it into the dry ingredients unharmed--albeit in more time than the recipe had estimated. But now after pouring in warm milk to break up the batter into something pourable, her whisk is incapable of breaking up the large lumps. She didn't know sifting was that important! 

“This is bullshit,” she grumps. She doesn't have time to keep starting over. 

Their little romp in the bathroom had energised her (smugness from getting your husband off in record time in the shower and a bitching session under the spray about people you’ve met who’ve annoyed you will do that), but there is an exhaustion she can’t ignore when her feet ache with the pain of standing in heels the whole day. 

She just needs to get something in the oven, make some frosting. Have something passable to assemble tomorrow morning so she can finally go upstairs and sink into bed, burrow under warm blankets with her back pressed to Scott's front, his left arm heavy settled across her waist. He’ll bury his nose in her hair, deliberately and obnoxiously sniffing for the strawberry scent of her shampoo, and it will compel her to elbow him to stop, but will only make him pull her in closer, tangle their legs, his nose nuzzling into the crook of her neck. And his breath, so close to her ear, rather than annoy her, will lull her to sleep. She  _ needs _ that. 

Maybe a fork would lend more force, Tessa reckons. She pulls the whisk out of the bowl to replace it, but as she holds it upright she gets milk flicking into her eye and onto her cheek. 

“Goddamn it,” she sighs. 

Scott peeks his head in through the kitchen door. “I didn’t know they write recipes with swearing in them now too. Is that what cookbooks call for now? A liberal pinch of ‘fucks’ and ‘shits’?” 

She huffs. “Don’t be silly, Scott. Whatever cake that makes will taste disgusting.” 

He chuckles as he comes to stand on the opposite side of the island, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he peers into the bowl. 

“You know, it'll be easier to mix that batter if you hold your whisk properly.”

She narrows her eyes into slits. She very much wants to make an innuendo, but that would still leave her with clumps of cocoa in her cake batter. For efficiency's sake, she grabs an empty plastic measuring cup and hurls it in the direction of his head. 

Of course, he'd anticipated the move and he dodges easily, but the cup makes contact with his shoulder and leaves a smattering of flour on his navy t-shirt.

He raises one eyebrow in challenge, then suddenly he jumps up and grips onto the counter on a false start.

She drops the whisk into the bowl and takes a step back from the counter. “Scott,” she tries to placate, “you're going to wake up the baby. Go check on her,” she bargains.

He winks. “You're the loud one, Tess.”

And then, before she even has a chance to register that he's taken his hands off the counter, he's leaping to his right, in pursuit. 

She hops back, bringing her hand up to her mouth to muffle her squeal and subsequent giggles, and, sliding on her socks, makes a run for the nearest exit. 

* * *

**(11:50 PM)**

Calgary has been a Union Party stronghold for the past four decades. Consequently, Meryl always thrives in and amongst the people's energy. 

She waves to the crowd of people watching her go, the party still going, before she slips into the backseat of the Cadillac after her husband, Marina following after her. 

The night had gone so well. 

Even Marina had restrained herself from hissing into her ear about every detail of the event that annoyed her, handling them quietly herself, leaving Meryl to engage with well wishers, businessmen, donors, cameras, and journalists, at a pace she was comfortable with.

Eteri Tutberidze, editor-in-chief of the  _ National Business Journal _ , spent the evening singing praises of Meryl’s good sense and hard work, so Meryl muses with Fedor about the likelihood of a request for her to pen an op-ed about the oil boom. Maybe she’ll be even guest-edit. The wonders that would do to undermine her opponents’ Budget plans. 

She can't wait to see the polls and the headlines tomorrow.

They're five minutes into the drive to their hotel when Marina, on her phone, signals for their attention. 

“Tessa’s Education policy is trending,” is all she says, not bothering to look up from her scrolling and tapping. “Tessa's husband is trending,” she adds after a pause. 

Fedor scowls, mutters, “Fuck that guy,” before pulling out his own phone from the inner pocket of his jacket, opening up his social media apps. 

Meryl places her hand on his thigh, intending to soothe him as well as ground herself. She opens her clutch, retrieving her own phone. 

She navigates to  _ The Ottawa Post _ and sure enough the first three articles are about Tessa. Tessa in her Peter Pan collar and perfectly curled hair, smiling like a harmless little preschool teacher. Tessa and her policy announcement, Tessa and her kindness, Tessa and her vision for a Canada that's all rainbows and candy and magic. Meryl wrinkles her nose, not bothering to read beyond the headlines. 

She toggles to Twitter, to hashtag Virtue Moir, where she's assaulted by a barrage of tawdry, bawdy, fluff commentary, and the sweet victory Meryl felt throughout the evening turns sour in her mouth. It's Meryl's turn to scowl. 

“If all they can talk about are her legs and how much she fucks her husband, clearly they're not taking her seriously.”

Marina considers this and shrugs, “Yes, okay, but Tessa is polling ahead of you for preferred Prime Minister. I say that don't look good. It make people doubt their bet.” She tuts, “I'm sorry to say, because you are my own children, but you two are not as fuckable as Tessa and Scott.”

Meryl's nose scrunches, wondering how that sentence could get any worse coming from her mother-in-law. 

Fedor blanches, “Mama, not that again."

“No no, I'm just saying,” Marina holds her hands up, “beautiful man with beautiful woman in love is easy to believe by people who don’t read.” Marina presses on, “You're lucky she won't trot out her baby, because then they look like royal family. Normal people likes woman who has husband and babies. Unnatural otherwise. Conservatives 'specially.”

Meryl sighs. She ignores the insult. She’s heard this spiel one too many times. 

“You’d be leading if you had baby, you know.”

She and Fedor both purse their lips and turn their face in a direction away from Marina’s view to roll their eyes. 

Marina smacks her hands together, loud and cracking. “I  _ see _ you,” she says. “I don’t mean have baby now--that’s stupid. Men don’t like pregnant woman. I just mean Fedor was too slow after he married you,” she leans over Meryl to dig her finger into her son’s thigh threateningly, “you missed your chance.” 

“Then do something about it instead of yelling at us,” Fedor huffs, irritated now, crossing his arms. He was never as good at ignoring his mother’s criticisms. 

Marina seethes. “I was getting there; you interrupt me! It’s simple: _ you _ ,” she directs to her son, “don’t even have to be handsome or make babies. Tessa smile and men fall down, but Scott makes up for not being relatable. We take away Scott’s credibility, and then no more happy family. Back to Meryl and you being stable. See, simple, yes?” 

At this Fedor scoffs. “That boy is whipped. All he does is wax poetic about his wife and baby, all ‘ _ Tessa saved a baby bird, Tessa solved child cancer; our baby is so smart she can sing the alphabet, uhu-huhu. _ ” He rolls his eyes so hard Meryl worries he’ll give himself a headache, “Where are you going to find a scandal about him?”

* * *

**(Twenty-nine days before the election)**

**(6:10 AM)**

They’d given themselves time for a lie-in, switched up her alarm from five to five-thirty, to make up for not finishing in the kitchen until just before one. Tessa had stubbornly refused his help with preparing batters and frosting, but she’d accepted his moral support as he sat on a kitchen stool opposite her, telling her about the rest of his day, keeping a running commentary to amuse them both and keep them awake, as well as reminding her to correct her hold on the whisk, the sieve, the spatula, the bowl. 

When her alarm was promptly snoozed they’d turned to each other and sighed, reaching to squeeze each other’s hands. Tessa had leaned in to press a tender kiss on his jaw, gotten carried away when he slipped his hand under her shirt and stroked the dip on her lower back, and she’d ended up rolling him onto  _ his  _ back, straddling his waist, making out until her alarm sounded again reminding them of the day ahead. Right then wasn’t the time to be making another baby.

She’d reached over to the bedside, still on top of Scott, and turned off the alarm. And then Tessa had hummed, uttered “Good morning,” as she bent down and nuzzled her nose with Scott’s, feeling extra loved-up. 

Scott had scooted back before sitting himself up and hugged Tessa with the crushing enthusiasm of an excited puppy. “Happy anniversary to you, T,” he’d trilled through a voice still a little hoarse from sleep, grin so wide and beaming she could hear it even as she pressed her cheek beside his as she hugged him back just as hard.

“Thank you,” she chuckled. “Happy anniversary to you, too.” 

And they had extricated themselves from each, gotten dressed (her in black yoga pants and a pink sweatshirt, him in black sweatpants and a black hoodie), peeked into the room Eliza occupied to make sure she was still asleep, and made their way downstairs. Him to the garage to begin setting up the backyard with tables, and her to the kitchen to make them breakfast and assemble the cake. 

As Tessa had gone about bringing a saucepan of water to simmer for poached eggs, Alma had been sipping coffee while emptying the dishwasher. 

Alma had bumped Tessa with her hip and said, “It’s going to be a good day. The sun’s gonna be out, I’m going to make a roast,  _ and  _ your cat let me pet him.”

Tessa chuckled, “Good mood this morning, eh?” 

“Of course!” she thumped Tessa on the arm, “my youngest grandbaby is two!! And from what I heard,” Alma leaned in conspiratorially as Tessa dropped an egg into the pot of swirling water, “there’ll be another coming soon,” she clicked her tongue and winked, patting Tessa’s arm.

Tessa’s eyes widened in horror. They  _ heard _ ?! 

She’d blushed, gaped and floundered, dropped the slotted spoon onto the counter, “Alma, no--I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean to--” 

But Alma had already placed the last mug on the shelf and jauntily walked out the back door to pop into the Arena. 

She’d stood there blinking into the saucepan in mortification, trying to figure out what to do with the knowledge that her in-laws  _ definitely  _ heard her and their son fucking against their bathroom door. Oh god. She’d gotten a lot more explicit once Scott was kneeling, and Scott was such an enabler-- 

Tessa covered her eyes with her hands and groaned. Until she remembered that it was for that same act that she was mortified, and she had promptly turned on her heel and flicked on the kitchen radio, tuned in to the early morning news, tuning out her thoughts, and fished out the overcooked egg from the pan.

She’s quiet when Scott returns to the kitchen, placing a plate of poached eggs on toast in front of him, ignoring his eyes that search. 

He begins regardless, “Funny thing happened while Dad and I were laying out tablecloths...”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. I was asking him about the meats and what he might do with them so that I could set up the barbeque for him, but he just told me to leave it because he was refusing to meet my eyes to suss it out together. Do you think they…?” 

Tessa picks up her mug of coffee and takes a gulp before she answers with a shiver of embarrassment, “Alma said she heard us making a baby.” 

Scott chokes on his toast. 

She thwacks him on the back as he chugs coffee. 

He’s still wiping wipes tears from his eyes when he flicks his gaze to hers and confides, “I don’t want another baby right now; I just want you to know that.” 

“I know. I don’t either.” She sighs. “I wish she could have a sister like I had Jordan, but, I mean, I’m barely around as it is--”

“Hey,” Scott interrupts, gently but firmly, “you’re definitely around. We have a different schedule now and we’re getting used to it, but you’re doing so well at carving out time for her and us.”

“I  _ am  _ trying,” she concedes, “but there’s so much growth that happens during toddlerhood and I’m missing it.” Scott’s hand migrates to her back to soothe. 

“We’ll be living together in a bus soon. You won’t be missing anything then,” he tries to joke. 

She sips her coffee in response. 

He tries again. “It's the quality of the time you spend with her that matters more than quantity, and you definitely put in all your worth into your time with her. I promise you that she doesn't love you any less because you're out saving the world," he runs a hand through his hair. “You have so much to do and to give to people, we both know you weren’t going to give up office and be a stay-at-home mom. I’m happy to be the one that does, so there’s no need to be guilty about that.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I made you leave behind coaching the best ice dance teams in the world.” 

“I still consult,” he reminds her. “And you didn’t  _ make  _ me give it up. There were other coaches for my teams to go to, but Parliament was still in session. What was I going to do? Leave our kid home alone and hope they figure out how to make their own bottle like in  _ Matilda _ ?”

A small smile breaks out on Tessa’s face. “I don’t think the guilt from being away from her will go away. At least not now when all I feel like I do is leave my own kid and hold random people’s children instead while their parents take pictures.” His eyes get tender as he accepts this, resuming his soothing caress of her back. “But after the election,” she plows ahead--she is a pragmatist after all, “win or lose, when my schedule is more predictable we'll sort out a new routine. And I’ll delegate more and trust my staff.” 

“We can go with you to London more often.”

“Yeah, like that.” She looks at him, grateful. 

A moment of silence passes as they both take a bite of their breakfasts, allowing the exchange to percolate. 

“If Eliza’s our only one,” Tessa takes and squeezes his hand, “then I’m happy with that.” 

He smiles sincerely, “Same for me, T.” 

Scott takes his finished plate to the sink to rinse, bending to load them in the dishwasher. He retrieves her empty mug, and shortly after her empty plate too and repeats the process. Then, “Also,” he busts out, turning on his heel to face her, “have you forgotten how overdramatic ice dancers are? What makes you think I didn’t want to get away from  _ that _ ? I’m better at being a dad than a coach anyway.”

She allows herself to chuckled then, “Then you’ll be pleased to know that there’s a  _ Buzzfeed _ article about you and how you’re such a daddy.” Tessa grinned.

“What?” he utters, eyebrows scrunched up. “No. Really? How do you know? What does that mean?”

Teeth bared at the amusement, she hops off her seat to stand close to him and pinch his cheek. “It means you’re a good dad in a ‘hot bod’. Jeff and Marie told me.” 

“Oh my god. You’re kidding me. Really?” he hugs her arm to his chest.

At her affirmative his face scrunches up, and he leaned over to smack a wet kiss on her cheek. “See? Best decision we ever made.” 

They fall into an easy banter after that. 

He takes her phone from the counter to open that morning’s briefing which Patch had emailed and read it aloud, while she took the cake out of the fridge along with an assortment of paraphernalia. As she built up layers of cake and frosting into a questionable face of a baby elephant, he transcribed her replies to the emails that accumulated in her inbox overnight. And together, for fun, when both tasks began to turn frustrating, they turned to gossiping. 

“Do you know what Zach Donohue said about you?” 

Tessa scrunches her nose as she attempts to get the frosting into the crevices under what are meant to be the ears. 

“He said he’s scared of you,” Scott says, giddy, “because apparently you’ve got an energy that’s like, ‘I’m beautiful but I can kill you with a snap of my fingers’.”

Tessa snorts. “Where did he say that?”

“On an obscure blog, but it got picked up by the  _ London Free Press _ ,” he reaches over to raise her arm up to shake it above her head in victory. “He’s finally admitted you’re better than him.” 

She snaps her fingers, covered in baby blue buttercream frosting (that had taken her three failed batches to get right), “Goodbye, Zach, it was nice knowing you. But not really.” She and Scott dissolve into snickers then.

…

“Scott, where's my phone? Take a picture before it falls apart.”

“It's not going to fall apart. There's so much frosting holding this thing together, there's no way it’s going to move.” At her irked expression he says, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I’m sorry! I meant to say that you did such a good job!” He rushes to pull her into a close hug, dances her side to side, and then presses a loud kiss on her temple when he lets her go. He retrieves her phone from next to the sink, and proceeds to photograph her creation from various angles without having to be reminded. 

Tessa huffs. That’s more like it. 

Last year, Kate had been the one to make Eliza’s cake after she’d caught Tessa on the verge of a meltdown after a third batch of failed cake batter. Tessa was determined this year was going to be different. 

The texture of the cakes that came out of the oven last night may be on the side of over-baked, but at least she knows they’re cooked and no one will die from salmonella. She may have been overzealous with the frosting, she will admit to that, but it covered up her poor attempt at sculpting elephant ears. The fact that the cake made it onto a cake stand is an achievement, a feat in itself. 

Scott returns her phone to her for assessment. 

She cringes. “Is it the colour that’s off-putting?” 

“Don’t say that, Tess; the cake matches the cartoon elephants on the banners.” 

“Should I have gone more grey? But grey is so unappetizing to look at,” she bites at her lip. 

“It’s cute,” Scott supplies from his perch of his chin on her shoulder.

It’s going to need a filter. A witty caption. 

“I’m just glad the trunk doesn’t look like a pe--” Scott changes course at her hand thwacking his stomach, “--like a you-know-what,” he finishes. 

Their families will tease her about this until next year. 

“Okay,” she decides, no time to waste. She passes the phone back to Scott, “now a selfie.” 

Scott pouts. “I hate selfies,” he says as he flips the camera and captures multiple shots, both of them with thumbs up and wide, open mouthed smiles, as the cake takes up the foreground.

Scott passes the phone back to Tessa, freeing his hands to allow him to gingerly pick up the cake and walk it over to the fridge, onto the lowest shelf that Alma had emptied in anticipation. 

As Scott prepares a bottle for Eliza, followed by a trip to the coat closet to retrieve their special present, Tessa does a quick clean of the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and washing her hands. 

She’s returning the tea towel to its place on the oven door when Scott returns, present tucked under his left arm, the bottle in his hand. She reaches over to join their hands, her left into his right, his pinky slotting between her index and middle fingers, before pulling him in the direction of the stairs, and quietly, they tiptoe to the door second on the left from the landing.

Tessa turns the knob slowly and pushes on the door just as carefully, opening it just wide enough for her and Scott to slip through, but not wide enough to let the light from the hallway creep in close to the crib. Only enough that when they resume their positions from last night, shoulder to shoulder with their hands on the crib’s railing, they can see their daughter: on her left side, her curling hair messy, no doubt tangled and in need of a brush that she will protest and squirm away from, her blanket kicked off to her feet, and her knees tucked into her stomach. 

“Do you think she’ll wake if I pick her up?” Tessa whispers to Scott.

Scott turns to his wife with eyes soft, twinkling with tenderness. “Her breathing’s still deep, she probably won’t even notice,” he breathes out, taking his hand off the railing to rub gentle circles on Tessa’s lower back, smiling softly. 

Needing no further encouragement, Tessa bends and reaches into the crib, rolling the toddler onto her back, easing her hands and part of her forearms under the girl’s neck and under her hips, and lifts her daughter to cradle her against her breast, making shushing sounds as Eliza shifts her head side to side at the disturbance. 

Tessa sways and hums, hoping to avert a grumpy child. But Scott is right, the girl settles against Tessa and resumes her deep breaths. 

She stills so that Scott can step closer, her back to his front, his hands resting on her hips, and his chin on her shoulder, tickling her a little. “Can you believe our baby’s two?” Scott murmurs, his touch just as quiet as reaches over to trace Eliza’s knuckles.

Tessa chuckles quietly.  Eliza is small, like she and Scott were when they were children, and her fingers still itty bitty that they send both her parents into raptures. But there’s a strain in Tessa’s arms from holding her like this that’s saying their daughter isn’t a baby anymore.

“Yes, but I don’t want to.” 

* * *

**(Seven hundred and fifty-nine days until the election)**

**(3:40 PM)**

She’s lost track of time. 

She can’t recall them making the way to the hospital, or how long she’s been lying on the bed in her current position. 

Tessa is only aware of two things. 

The first is pain. So much pain. Coursing through her entire body, hot red pulses between her legs and along her back, coming in waves but receding only a little before they return crashing. 

The second thing she is aware of is Scott. 

Her mind can only tune in to him when she’s not bearing down, on fire and dazed, but she knows she’s had his hand tightly clenched in hers since she started whining in pain (and fear), his fingertips purpling from her vice grip, his body bending over the bed to be close for her to hear him murmuring words of comfort and encouragement on repeat. How strong, how brave, how close she is. 

She wants to love him but she wants to yell at him but she doesn’t have the energy. She just grunts, low sounds that pitch higher when contractions come and go and she’s allowed to push. 

Anna, her midwife, keeps telling her to hold. That they’re almost there, but that she needs to push only when she’s told. 

But Tessa doesn’t understand. She just wants to keep pushing and pushing and get it over with. She doesn’t want to wait, she doesn’t want to breathe through another contraction. 

Her body protests and no matter how much she wills herself, she can’t hold back the constant, increasing pressure that makes her bear down. And then she’s pushing as hard as she can, her teeth gnashing together as she closes her eyes and groans low and throaty, and then there’s a fire, pulsing hot pain, a stretch, and for a moment she feels relief from the pressure until she’s told to hold again. She vaguely registers Scott’s crying as he uses the back of his hands clasped around hers to wipe his tears. 

And finally she’s given permission to do as her body wills. With a long, low grunt she pushes with everything she has left, bunching the sheets of her hospital bed in one hand, and gripping firmly onto Scott’s hand so tightly their hands shake, her nails biting into the skin of Scott’s hand. White pain courses through her body, and as she’s ready to collapse she feels a slippery, warm mass slide out. 

Beyond the sudden ringing in her ears, she hears the piercing, shrill cry that she’s been waiting ten, eleven hours (and two years) for. 

“She’s here! You have a baby girl!” the midwife cheers. 

She collapses back on the bed, her body shaking, her teeth chattering. 

Tessa thought she knew exhaustion, but this eclipses everything she’s ever known. And though her body screams for rest, she pulls herself back up by her elbows into an upright position against her pillows, one thought running through her mind.

She needs to see her. She needs to see her baby. This longed for child, the embodiment of her and Scott’s love and care and trust and devotion in each other.  _ Eliza _ . 

The baby’s crying softens in volume and as Tessa searches distractedly, she notices Scott is not longer by her side. Instead, he stands by their midwife at the foot of the bed, listening carefully as Anna explains something to him as she helps adjusts his hold on the bundle that is their daughter. 

She doesn’t understand what they’re doing. Frankly, she doesn’t have the patience. She wants Eliza on her chest, pressed against her heart, where she belongs. 

Before she can open her mouth to let her displeasure known, Scott, his eyes red and cheeks wet with tears, turns towards her, his eyes trained on their child, and makes his approach to the head of the bed. 

She stretches out her arms impatiently, her eyes focused on the baby he carries, not caring about anything else, ignoring the renewed sobbing that bursts out from Scott when he looks up and sees her expression. 

And then finally, she gets what she wants, has spent the last nine months anticipating. Scott raises his arms and places the warm bundle onto Tessa’s chest, and her surroundings slip away as her senses fixate on the impossibly little body, soft and squirming in the towels that keep her warm. 

“Hi there, baby,” Tessa sniffles, “there’s no need to cry. Mommy’s here,” she laughs. 

She uses one arm to secure the baby to her chest, the other she uses to swipe at the tears that obstruct her sight. And there is the baby, peering straight up at her, Eliza's eyebrows furrowed, her eyes slightly squinted but alert and searching until finally her gaze focuses on Tessa, her irises a greenish-brown, and suddenly Tessa understands what Scott must feel when he waxes poetic about her eyes, because in this moment she feels she could recite prose and yet that would still not be able to convey the rush of warmth and love, the pure and utter bliss that she feels in that moment. 

She releases an amalgamation of a laugh and a cry as she stares at that tiny face, scanning, noticing every detail, the patches of vernix on her skin and around her eyes, the roundness of her cheeks, her smattering of light brown hair, her tiny mouth opened to form an o-shape, her little arms raised, her hands tightly clenched into fists, and her fingers irresistibly small. 

Tessa can’t quite comprehend that their daughter is out, that Eliza is her own person, who’ll have opinions and dreams and worries of her own, and yet is Tessa’s to protect and love, to feed and to hold, to teach and to learn from. She woke up that morning a pregnant woman, and now she's someone's mother. It’s wondrous, it’s terrifying, it makes Tessa search for Scott, throwing her hand out to the side blindly, trusting he’ll find it and hold on. 

He’s not far. He's beside her, his hands on the edge of the bed, standing with his head tipped down as though in prayer, giving her space as not to crowd and overwhelm her, but doubly so he can weep unreservedly as he watches her meet their daughter for the first time. 

When he holds her hand in his, she pulls him down close to them, and he arranges himself with one arm propped on the bed to keep him steady as he leans, and the other settles across her’s that’s holding the baby to her chest. Scott runs a finger along Eliza’s teeny knuckles, offering the baby his finger to hold, and when she grasps it and holds on he’s besotted and in love. 

He presses a lingering kiss on Tessa’s temple, at least another six kisses on her cheek, and in a choked whisper begins a stream of consciousness, his happiness, his gratefulness, his pride. 

Tessa beams, finally shifting her gaze from the baby to assess her husband.

His eyes still swim in tears, but even under the harsh lights of the hospital room she can read unadulterated joy, reverence (for her or their daughter--perhaps both), pride, love, a realisation. She understands completely. She begins her own monologue, feeling like she must be babbling nonsense, but trusting he knows what she means. 

The midwife appears, talking about her uterus and asking Tessa if she wants to try getting Eliza to latch, and Tessa immediately starts nodding in response, fumbling, trying to pull off her sports bra while still lying down with the baby across her chest. It makes Scott chuckle and smile her favourite smile, mouth opened in a grin, eyes squinted, lines beside his eyes. He carefully, gently, slowly takes Eliza from her chest, making shushing sounds as the baby protests the loss of warmth, swaying as he cradles their girl. The sight makes Tessa want to start crying all over again. 

Her midwife helps her out of her damned bra, and once she’s free she stretches out her arms, asking for the baby back. 

Tessa tries to guide the baby’s attention to her nipple, but Eliza seems more interested in laying across her breast, blinking her eyes closed, letting out the cutest sounds Tessa and Scott have ever heard. She and Scott are content to watch her, marvelling, cooing words of encouragement. The baby is content just then to sleep.

All too soon, Anna’s face appears next to Scott’s again. She appears apologetic as she explains that Tessa needs to push again to deliver the afterbirth, but suggests that Scott hold the baby in the meanwhile and get Eliza through a quick checkup. 

Reluctantly, Tessa passes the baby over. 

She sits herself back up and concentrates on Anna’s directions. But she’s unable to ignore Eliza’s cries in the background as she’s rudely woken by a doctor opening her cocoon of towels. 

The contractions are milder, but with Anna’s hand on her belly, tightening her uterus and guiding the placenta, the discomfort still exists. Pushing then is less pressure than before, but it takes longer than she’d imagined. 

When she finally feels the afterbirth slide down and out of her body, she’s flooded with relief. She registers disgust as she becomes fully aware of the blood, sweat, vernix, and she’s pretty sure pee, that have accumulated on her skin and on her bed, but as she lies on her back as Anna checks on the sorry state of her vagina and stitching her up, Tessa can at least marvel at the power of local anaesthetics. 

And then Scott makes his way back with the baby and she cares for nothing else anymore. 

His hold is still a little hesitant and his gait far more subdued, but his smile is so wide, his voice scratchy as he coos, raising his eyebrows high for the baby to copy. And there is something quite primal at seeing her baby’s entire length fit the length of her husband’s forearm, at seeing her daughter’s head being cradled and protected so securely and so gently in the palm of his hand, so similar to how those same arms and hands have soothed her, worshipped her, embraced her, protected her, held her up, literally and figuratively, for as long as she’s been with him. 

This, Tessa decides, is completeness. 

A startled, joyous laugh bursts through her. 

Scott’s eyes look up from their daughter to meet hers. 

And Tessa sighs, blissed.

* * *

**(Twenty-nine days until the election)**

**(7:02 AM)**

Eliza peeks open one eye, notices Tessa and smirks, before promptly shutting her eye again and cooing a contented “ _ Mommy _ ,” turning slightly in the cradle of Tessa's arms to burrow into her mother's breast. 

“Eliza,” Tessa coos back, soft and melodic. “Wake up, sweetheart. It's your big day,” she lifts the girl higher and leans down to press a sequence of kisses against the girl’s warm forehead. It makes the baby squeak out a giggle, eyes squinting, her mouth opening in delight. But Eliza persists, keeping her eyes shut tight, playing asleep.

Scott grabs onto the baby's foot and tickles its underside, earning him a kick to the stomach in retaliation. He’s undeterred. “If you wake up now, Mommy and I will give you your present,” he sing-songs. 

That does the trick. 

Eliza's eyes pop open and she struggles to sit up, reaching for Scott.

Tessa helps her jump into Scott’s arms. 

Scott, bursting at the seams with excitement, squishes their daughter into his chest, smothering her with kisses and a murmur of sweet things, and Eliza eats it right up. Until, that is, Scott starts to sing  _ Happy Birthday  _ obnoxiously loud by the side of her head as he swings them to and fro and and the girl covers Scott’s mouth with both of her hands, shaking her head as she insists, “Loud.” 

Tessa takes back her daughter, this time with the warm bottle of milk that Scott set down on the colouring table. Tessa is more calm considering the hour. She has Eliza wrap her short legs around her waist, keeping one arm under the girl’s bottom to hold her up. She hands her the bottle and the girl tips it right up to guzzle her morning milk, eyeing her mother as she combs through her tangled hair. 

“Do you know what day today is?” Tessa murmurs to Eliza. 

The girl shakes her head.

“It’s your birthday!” Tessa emits a little gasp for effect. “You’re two years old today!” 

Eliza continues drinking her milk. 

Scott leans over to plant a big kiss on the baby’s cheek, and they’re rewarded with a cheesy grin through her bottle. 

“Can we sing you the song now?” Scott inquires. “I promise to sing softly this time.” 

Eliza hums and reaches a hand out to Scott. That’s all the encouragement they need, and they begin their rousing chorus of  _ Happy Birthday _ in excited whispers, Tessa holding the last note and Scott ending with a hearty but completely mute  _ Woohoo! _

The baby pulls the bottle out of her mouth to grin and utter, “Thanks!” offering Tessa a drink of her milk to celebrate. 

Tessa holds onto the girl’s hand to graze her thumb across her knuckles, and replies, “That's so kind of you, but Daddy and I have already eaten. Thank you, though,” and kisses Eliza's knuckles to reinforce her good deed. 

Eliza shrugs like Scott--including her face with the twisted pout and raised eyebrows along with the motion of her shoulders--and pops the nipple back into her mouth. 

Eventually the trio gravitate to the colouring table where the box wrapped in gold paper and white ribbon sit. Tessa sits on the floor with Eliza in her lap, still working on her bottle, now facing Scott. The baby points to the gift in inquiry, and who are they to deny her. Scott takes hold of the box and offers it to the girl. She pulls the bottle out of her mouth, still with a third of its contents left, and passes it to Tessa. 

Eliza scoots forward, eager to open her prize. Tessa directs her to the length of ribbon that would unravel the bow, and then Eliza scratches on the paper, narrating as she goes, looking for a groove to slip her fingers under to pull. Her mother helps her with that too, pulling the tape that seals one end right off, and Eliza is free to gleefully rip the paper apart, pull off the top of the box to reveal the smallest pair of white figure skates Tessa and Scott have ever seen, with fluffy pink soakers on the blade. 

Their baby has mastered walking and running, yes, but both Tessa and Scott know that the balance required for skating is a skill still far off, no matter how good Scott may be as a coach. But this has been Scott’s dream. 

Four months ago when Eliza started getting steady on her running and Scott suggested getting their daughter on skates next, all Tessa wanted to do was agree. Tessa figured, if their daughter decided she liked the ice, then it would be a chance to get him back to centre ice, where he always looked so at home--the confidence he oozed, his posture perfect, his expression unparalleled, his lines the most beautiful she’s ever seen in an ice dancer, and his edges oh so  _ deep _ ; watching him skate bordered on erotic. 

Eliza runs her fingers through the fluffy pink soakers and smiles to herself. When she’s satisfied with her perusal, she leans forward to poke her finger into Scott’s chest. “Daddy skate,” she says confidently. 

“Yup, Daddy skates. Mommy did too, when she was younger. She was actually my first skating partner, can you believe? Aunt Carol was our coach and we skated in Grandma’s Arena, and we had so much fun together.”

“The most fun,” Tessa agrees with a toothy smile. “I was only a little bigger than you when I started skating!” she directs at their daughter. “But then I had to leave to be a ballerina for a bit, and Daddy didn’t have a partner for a while.”

“But that’s okay, because I get to have the best skating partner now. Do you have any clue who that could be?” Scott taps on his chin exaggeratedly, looking around the room. 

Eliza squints trying to follow. Then Scott says, “My kiddo!” bringing his fingers to tickle their daughter under her armpits, and the girl dissolves into giggles. 

“I'm  _ so  _ excited,” he confides. “Did you know,” he informs their daughter, bent down close, mischievous, “that I’ve been waiting for this day since we found out you were in Mommy’s tummy?”

“Oh?” Eliza asks, one eyebrow arched, questioning, a perfect imitation of her mother. 

“Yeah,” Tessa fills in, “Daddy came back from Four Continents with a onesie for you that had ‘ice ice baby’ printed on it,” Tessa locks eyes with Scott as she says this. “I thought it was funny, but then he kept coming home with skating merch for babies and they were all so cheesy.” She scrunches her nose and mock shakes her head, Eliza copying. 

“Mommy says that but she was in love with all of the baby toques I brought home,” he corrects. “So what do you say, kiddo? Will you be my skating partner?” 

Eliza nods enthusiastically. “We go? Now?” Eliza hops up. “Go go go! Go, Daddy!” she says, making grabby hands at Scott, accompanied by a stream of words meant to convince her parents. 

“Hang on there, kiddo. You have to finish your bottle first. Then we’ll change your nappy,” Scott counts them off on his hand, “and then you’ll get dressed, and then you’ll eat a snack, and  _ then _ we’ll go.”

“Oh no. No no,” the baby pouts and crosses her arms. 

“I guess I can lace up and skate around the rink with Daddy instead.” Tessa winks to Scott. He’s not opposed to the suggestion. “Eliza can stay here and wait with Grandpa.” 

“No no no no no, Mommy,” their daughter whines, turning around to grab at Tessa’s cheeks, beseechingly. “Daddy skate.” 

So then Tessa offers her her bottle, and the girl snatches it up and resumes guzzling.

* * *

**(10:15 AM)**

Skating had gone as well as Tessa had hoped. They’d shared the ice with two junior dance teams who were more interested in perfecting their patterns than to pay any mind to their little family in one corner of the ice. 

Eliza had been bundled up in a pink snowsuit, a cream coloured toque, eager to help Scott as he laced and strapped her skates, and then fidgety with her boots while she got used to them around her feet. But once their daughter’s feet touched the ice, after the baby giraffe act as she held onto her father’s hands for dear life, when Scott half carried her as he glided them across the ice, wind in their faces, a glide under their feet, their daughter’s shrieks of delight had been unstoppable. When Scott spun Eliza at centre ice, the baby had been the most delighted. 

That is, until they let her try standing on her blades unassisted, and she had fallen on her nappy covered bottom. Her pout had quivered but she’d refused to cry. But after that, no matter how much coaxing, Eliza only wanted to be carried and danced around by Tessa as they skated laps around the rink. 

They’d only stopped because the baby announced her hunger. They’d walked back to Alma and Joe’s, Scott shouldering their bags and Tessa carrying Eliza, the baby wearing a too large bucket hat that hid half of her face from the view of the few people loitering with cameras. (The public would get their view later. Tessa and Scott still had fluff pieces to film on the ice where they first met before they could move on to Toronto.) They'd fed Eliza, dressed her in her party dress, and began the wait for their guests. 

Kate arrived promptly at Alma's kitchen door at eight-thirty, a medium sized box wrapped in paper depicting pink dancing elephants in one hand, and a baking dish of fragrant cinnamon rolls in the other. Both of which she passed off to Scott once Eliza came barrelling through, screeching for her Nana. 

Jordan breezed through the front door like the cool aunt that she is five minutes after, wearing a jean jacket over a white cotton jumpsuit. On the crook of her left elbow was an oversized Dolce and Gabbana shopping bag--Tessa assumed filled with pieces from the new junior fall-winter collection--and clasped in her left hand were approximately twenty silver and orange helium balloons on strings. On the crook of her right elbow was a large tote with boxed presents, ribbons and all, and her handbag, stuffed with candy and other knick-knacks to impress her nieces.

She’d told Tessa to fish for her car keys and instructed her to get the boxes of gourmet doughnuts and cupcakes from her car. And, using the back of the hand holding the balloons, she had pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, called out into the house for her goddaughter (and favourite niece). 

Eliza had been beside herself with glee at the sight of the balloons (and Aunt Jo, of course). 

As Tessa did as Jordan told her, Danny, the sole representative from the brood of Moirs out in Calgary, walked into the living room and put down the pile of presents he’d been entrusted with on the coffee table, his arms opened wide, booming, “Where's the birthday girl?!”

Eliza had run to him, a balloon with her, knowing and anticipating that she would get thrown up in the air. Danny didn't fail. 

Aunt Carol and Uncle Paul crossed the street at quarter-to, bearing a gift bag, a platter of tea sandwiches, and a tray of fish to smoke on the grill outside. They made their rounds hugging everyone in attendance, leaving the birthday girl for last. Eliza had sat on Carol’s knee regaling her with their skating excursion with little prompting necessary, their old coach recounting stories of Tessa and Scott’s days of skating to meet the girl’s curiosity. 

Casey, his wife, and daughter were the last to arrive at nine on the dot, apologising for being late, recounting the traffic on the way out of London. Poppy and Eliza had run at each other and the impact of their embrace had them laughing along with the adults in the room. Poppy, being older by four years, had lifted Eliza to swing her around, until her mother told her to put her cousin down. 

There isn’t much of a programme. Just good food and good conversations, everyone under strict instructions to avoid discussing politics as much as possible. All the games Tessa had planned involved Eliza’s toddler friends, and in their absence, she’d just let her daughter run wild. Literally. Eliza’s laughter has been the soundtrack to the party, and so Tessa decided, as long as her daughter keeps laughing, then she’s happy too. 

In the backyard, weaving past tables, Eliza plays a non-ending game of tag against her uncles and aunts. There’s a tennis ball involved somehow. She missed the rules so she can’t be sure, but she thinks the objective is to keep the ball safe. Though, judging by the fact that her daughter refuses to relinquish the ball even when she’s “it”, it’s highly likely that Eliza had simply decided that the ball is hers and refuses to give it up. 

Poppy drags Eliza around by the hand, and the younger girl is happy to go along, a little red in the face from laughing and running. The baby had long ago pulled her cardigan off in a huff, and handed it to Scott. 

When Poppy became “it”, their holy alliance annulled, Eliza ran to her mother, pulling on Tessa’s blush skirt, trying to climb to a height that would prove elusive for her older, taller, cousin’s reach. And so Tessa had been roped into abandoning the heels that matched her floral cropped top, to run around with her daughter clinging tight, dodging around trees and tables to escape Poppy and Jordan’s pursuit. Her sister is  _ competitive _ . 

But when Joe and Scott turned out smoked ribs, Jordan had begged off from the game to get barbecue. Tessa had used that as an excuse to sub Scott in and drop herself on a plastic chair, gulping down a glass of cold water, catch her breath, and continue her way through the charcuterie board while watching her husband help Eliza corner Danny. 

Tessa munches on grapes and camembert as she ponders the sight. Seeing him get down on his haunches along with Eliza when the baby gets distracted, matched with his outfit, (black jeans, a slim fit, pale blue Oxford shirt, the top two buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his musculature and the prominent veins on his forearms, just as he knows she likes them to be), makes Tessa lick her lips on reflex. 

“So what's this I hear about me getting another niece or nephew?” Jordan pulls up a chair beside Tessa. 

“Oh my god, Jordan, no!” That puts an end to Tessa’s daydream. Her eyes reluctantly meet her sister’s. 

“I heard you two were so loud Alma had to go looking for ear plugs, only to realise they were in the bathroom.” Jordan rests her chin on her folded hands, her grin so wide her gums show, and Tessa grimaces hard and begins to squirm. “I’m all for you being the first PM to have a baby while running the country, but is conceiving in your in-law’s bathroom really the story you want to tell people?”

Tessa’s face contorts into disgust. “I’m not getting knocked up, and we don’t tell people how we--how--Jojo, stop it, right now!” she smacks Jordan's arm and demands in the tone of torment only a youngest sibling knows. “We’ve been together for eight years and we have a baby together. We’ve obviously had sex before today; why is everyone making this a thing?” 

Their mothers, Aunt Carol, and Uncle Paul, seated less than two metres away look over, eyebrows arched, Paul scratching at his ear. 

Jordan smacks Tessa’s arm right back. “You want to say that any louder, Tessa? We know in the abstract that you two must go at it like animals, but we’ve been blessed never to have walked in on any of it,” Jordan knocks on the table, “but it’s another thing entirely to  _ hear _ it as it happens. Poor Joe’s been using the half-bath.” 

Tessa bites on her thumb nail, frowning, “Do you want me to call a priest to exorcise the place or something?” 

Her sister snorts, “Gross, no, just imagine the headlines. Alma just wants you and Scott to apologise to them and promise not to try any of that under their roof ever again. She might let it slide if you two actually did make her another grandchild, but you say not, so,” Jordan shrugs. 

Tessa keeps her lips pursed tight, embarrassed, mortified, thoroughly chastised. “Okay, thanks.” 

“Why didn’t you do it in Scott’s room?” Jordan continues. “It’s literally the farthest room from Alma and Joe’s. Isn’t it meant to be romantic to bring your wife to your childhood bedroom and make love on the small bed you used to spend your life alone and lonely on? Like, full circle? I wouldn’t know,” she flips her hair, “neither me nor my previous partners have been dorks.”

Tessa resists the urge to quip that they’d been doing that for years when they stay in Ilderton during holidays, and that yes, they do enjoy it because it’s not the setting so much as what they do and feel together. “For your information,” Tessa retorts, “there’s a queen bed in there now. Plus, the bathroom--” she can’t hold back the pleased smirk that colours her voice, “it was efficient.”

For that comment, Jordan aims a handful of grapes at Tessa’s shoulder. 

Tessa retaliates by taking the row of spare ribs that her sister had specially chosen for the way the meat pulls of the bone, taking a big, exaggerated bite, and licking along the entire length of the meat as Jordan shrieks a “Nooooo!” while trying to slap Tessa’s hands off. 

Her sister is exasperated, and so are their mothers, but the scowl on Jordan’s face is worth it when Jordan has to go back to the grill and accept a normal well-done row of ribs from Joe. 

When Jordan returns to the table but sits opposite Tessa, as Tessa dabs on the corners of her lips with a serviette she inquires, “So, you were the chosen one who they sent to scold us?” 

“Democracy isn’t always kind,” Jordan sighs dramatically. “You’re lucky they chose me. Just imagine Casey giving you this talk.”

Tessa flinches, then sticks her tongue out. “I’m tired of you,” she tells her sister. Then she stands up, turns to Kate and Alma and announces cheerily, “It’s time for cake!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if anyone is listening, but every single vote matters. If someone tries to tell you otherwise, then they're deliberately trying to kill democracy and strip you of your rights. Of course there are no Perfect candidates, but that doesn't mean you get to abstain. Not voting is complicity with the racists, capitalists, nationalists that end up in government. So make your family and friends vote, drive them to the polling booth if you must. The world is unkind enough as it is, we don't need any more Brexits or MAGAs.

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone everywhere: if there is an election, go register and vote!!
> 
> I'm on tumblr @reignandco if you'd like to offer help on Canadian geography :)


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